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Copyright, 1919 

THE STANDARD PRESS 

Kansas City, Mo. 







(i^^J-d^ 




AND 
OTHER 
VERSE 

BY 

WILL FERPELL 



PUBLISHED BY 

THE STANDARD PRESS 

GLOVER BUILDING 
KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI 



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irbtrat^h ttt tlj^ IH^mnrH nf M^ Mixtion 



ULb lo 1319 






From out a wreath which graced your final led 
I plucked a flow'r — a simple rose of red. 
I chose it well from many costly sprays; 
From rich designs and fairest of bouquets. 
Tea rose and jasmine; passion flower; 
A maze of bloom; a stately bower 
Around your bier. I had my choice of all 
That fair array festooned on rack and wall. 

I faced a problem — deeper than I thought, 
And all my random fancies fell to naught. 
One must I choose and bathe it with my tears, 
To turn my thoughts to you in after years. 
To symbolize your life I then must find 
The sweetest flow'r of all by God designed. 

Before my eyes, almost beneath my hand, 
A pale wax lily — cold, austere and grand, 
Was cast aside and then the dahlia came 
80 gaily dressed, so quaint possessed of name. 
Carnation, phlox and mignonette; 
The wan tube rose — the florist's pet. 
Not one of these nor others of their kind 
Could bring the answer to my troubled mind. 

Half hid beneath a flaming Jacquinot, 

Overlooked beside its brilliant glow, 

I found this plain red rose — a timid bud 

With broken stem and open heart of blood. 

No art but God's — the fruit of sun and storm — 

Had shaped those tender petals. Uniform 

In mold, in color and in scent, 

It mutely gave the love for which 'twas meant. 



The kind of rose one sometimes sees — alone, 
A hurst of glory on a wall of stone. 
The kind one sees, lohen other flowers fail, 
Kissed dy an erring youth ivithin the jail. 
The kind one sees at every broken gate; 
The one soft glow to eurh the rush of hate. 
The kind of rose which none but God has taught 
To cheer a soul or calm a troubled thought. 

I love that rose, Pll keep each precious part 
Deep in the family Bible's sacred heart 
At date of birth — a spring of long ago — 
An old Kentucky home where roses blow. 
Adown the years, as far as mind can store, 
Have other roses bloomed and gone before. 
But never grew a rose — kissed by the dew — 

As pure, as fair, divinely sweet as you, j 

My Mother. 



AN ACKNOWLEGMENT. 

The publishers of "Poems in Oil, and Other 
Verse" join the author in expressing apprecia- 
tion for the permission granted to reproduce 
many of the poems contained herein, which 
first appeared in leading newspapers and 
magazines of the country. Particularly are 
they indebted to The Kansas City Star, The 
Kansas City Journal, St. Louis Republic and 
Post-Dispatch, Chicago Journal, New York 
Journal, Washington Post, Sinclair's Maga- 
zine, Munseys, The Designer, The Poster, 
Independence Reporter, The Empire, and The 
Oil and Gas News. Their appreciation ex- 
tends also to the many other newspapers and 
the various oil trade publications, comprising 
a list of such length that lack of space pre- 
cludes their enumeration, all of which have 
done so much to acquaint the reading public 
with Will Ferrell's verses. 



Hot. 7, 1»1», 

J>«ar Mr. 7«rr*lli 

It haa b«en nor ploasxir* 
to re&d s number of your oil poeni«, both 
la our ovn magazine and others. 

I find them true In 
point of technique and human interest. 

I am sure you will enjoy s 
large sale of yo-or forthcoming volume of 
"Poems In oil" throughout the Uid-Coritinent 
dletrlet. 

loTira very tjruly. 



>Jr. will Perrell, 
Independence, 




INTRODUCTION 

POEMS IN OIL" seems a fitting title for this collec- 
tion of verse depicting scenes of the oil fields. For 
no mere painting in oil could picture more faithfully 
tlie scenes and conditions so graphically portrayed in 
rhyme by Will Ferrell. Prospecting in territory appar- 
ently devoid of romance, Ferrell has "drilled in" the 
sands on the wildcat leases of inspiration, and has found 
"color" in richly paying quantities. 

But Mr. Ferrell has not devoted his talent exclusively 
to the treatment in verse of oil field subjects. During 
the war his patriotic verses attracted nation-wide atten- 
tion. Most of these poems were concerned with topics 
of particular interest at the time they were written, but 
in the stress of later events largely forgotten. A few of 
the most popular ones, however, are included in this col- 
lection, as are others of a miscellaneous character. 

Through the publication in leading newspapers and 
magazines of many of the poems included in this volume, 
the trail to a quite general appreciation of Mr. Ferrell's 
contributions to the world of literature already has been 
blazed. However, in presenting "Poems in Oil, and Other 
Verse" the publishers consider that they are performing 
a pleasurable service in behalf of two classes of people— 
those who already are familiar with the author's poems, 
and those who may not yet have had opportunity to enjoy 
them. 



Page 11 



"SProER" CASS MALONE. 

The home folks called him ''Spider," in the place 

where he was born 
Out in Kansas where the sunflow'rs nod their 

heads in early mom, 
'Way out there in mystic cloudland, where the 

sky is smiling thru 
Drifts of moving fleece — eternal — on a field of 

fairy blue. 
Way out there where gilded sunrise scans the 

sea of opal mist 
And the sunset smiles a parting to the prairies 

it has kissed; 
Where the south wind springs at moonrise — ^when 

the red gold flashes pale, 
Sending sighs of recollection down some long- 
forgotten trail. 

"Spider" was his title, but his name was Cass 

Malone — 
Full six, two, red haired and honest, just a shank 

of skin and bone, 
And he loved the banker's daughter, but the rich 

man frowned him down 
When he went to claim Rosalia at the big house 

in the town. 
Days went by and Spider pondered o'er the irony 

of fate, 
But the logic of the prairies held his thoughts 

from gloom or hate. 
He was poor and rough and awkward, and his life 

was clean and true. 
But he failed to meet the standard of the mone- 
tary view. 

Page IS 



Came a day the prairies rumbled with a vague, 

far-reaching sound. 
'Twas the tread of freedmen marching, quick and 

sure upon the ground. 
Spider heard the call and answered — with his 

much-prized questionnaire 
And he qualified for service in the fields of "Over 

There." 
Leased his meager forty acres on the old time 

"boomer" trail 
V\niere his sires had forced their oxen thru th^ 

sand with curse and flail, 
Left the cockleburr and stubble of the last year's 

crop of cane, 

Left his heart with fair Rosalia when she kissed 
him at the train. 

Seasons passed. "Somewhere in England." Later 

"Somewhere at the front." 
Then his letters dragged and shortened. Briefly 

written, briefly blunt. 
Then a last one : "Dear, forget me, for you know 

I'm not the man, 
Marry Buck, the big oil magnate — owner of the 

Tex-0-Kan." 
Then a lapse. The busy postman passed the 

maiden at the gate; 
"Mebby you will hear tomorrow, soldier's mail is 

alius late." 
While she puzzled at the silence, Fate was taking 

up its yarn, 
Fate was spinning out the answer — somewhere 

on the distant Marne. 

Page 14 



Fate was spinning, too, in Kansas, where the 

black-eyed Susans grow, 
On the trails worn deep by ages — by the ox-teams 

long ago. 
Pipe-lines paralleled these by-ways. Derricks 

fringed the distant knolls. 
Copper threads had webbed the prairies on a 

hedge of straggling poles. 
Steam clouds rose from hissing boilers. Every- 
where was throb of drills. 
Motor trucks, piled high with casing, rumbled 

thru the limestone hills 
And, where derricks were the thickest and a town 

of tents had grown, 
Lay the one time worthless acres, held in "fee" by 

Cass Malone. 

You recall that July morning when the Germans 

struck at Vaux, 
Thought to cleave a path to Paris in one swift, 

decisive blow? 
You recall at Chateau Thierry where the captain 

in command 
Passed the word back to his doughboys: "Hit 

the trail for Kaiserland?" 
Do you know the lanky youngster who was first 

to leap the gap. 
Caught a ragged bit of shrapnel just beneath his 

iron cap. 
Just enough to hurt his "feelings" — just a glimpse 

of "somethin' red," 
Dripping, burning, nearly blinding, from the fur- 
row on his head? 

Page 15 



How his Kansas blood was boiling as he gave the 

prairie yell, 
Stormed a "wurfer" single handed, in a rain of 

leaden hell. 
Caught the cringing Hun behind it, like a spaniel 

grabs a rat, 
Flung him back upon his fellows with the cold 

steel in his fat 
And, when later, pale but happy, he received 

his Croix de Guerre 
And the sun of France was smiling down upon 

his russet hair, 
Someone handed him a cable from a far-off Kan- 
sas town; 
"Father says you're worth a million. Beat it 

home. We'll settle down !" 



Page 18 



LOVE AT RANGER. 

The tool dresser picked up his pencil and pad. 
His writing was fierce, his rhetoric bad, 
But the object, gee whiz, it was wholly — not part 
Of the theme in his soul and the throb of his 

heart. 
A lady ? Sure thing — in a far distant clime. 
With a form like a queen and a manner sublime. 
Ct, at least that's the way he expressed it to me 
As we sat by the fire in our little teepee. 
Down at Ranger. 

Her eyes were like star-dust, brilliant and blue. 
Or mebby crushed vi'lets, slathered with dew. 
Her hair was pure copper, shredded and spun, 
With a little gold added — direct from the sun. 
Her throat as the swan's and a voice as the wren, 
The only song-bird he could think of, just then. 
Or, at least that's the way he expressed it to me 
As we sat by the fire in our Uttle teepee 
Down at Ranger. 

At last came her photo — a generous card — 
And I wondered if Burleson charged by the yard. 
And her face, Hully Gee, what a rabble was there. 
And a neck Uke Jess Willard's, with muscle to 

spare. 
"She is what you'd call plump," was his ready 

defense, 
"But barring the *beef,' she is simply immense," 
Or, at least that's the way he expressed it to me 
As we sat by the fire in our little teepee 
Down at Ranger. 

Page 17 



Now this is the query I put to myself 
As I studied that 'lithograph' there on the shelf. 
**What is it he sees in that Hindenburg face 
That would indicate beauty or maidenly grace?" 
Then I thought of his ardor — his spasms of joy. 
"He's in love," came the answer. "He's only a 

boy." 
"You was once one yourself," whispered Logic to 

me. 
And I smiled as I dreamed in that little teepee 

Down at Ranger. 



Page 18 



THE GRAVE OF MAH-CHE-TAN. 

There's a mound in Oklahoma with a lone pine on 

its crest, 
Standing like a gaunt gray warrior — sharp against 

the golden west. 
Like a baker's loaf that mound is — like a clean 

cut cameo, 
Looming silver gray at sunrise — ^purple in the 

sunset glow. 
Flat and treeless all around it, in a green unbroken 

sea, 
Stretch the age-old, virgin prairies of the flow'r 

decked Cherokee. 
To the north the land is cluttered. Iron wheels 

have marred the trails. 
Snorting engines shunt the tank cars to the main 

line's gleaming rails. 
Everywhere are kindred noises, clank of iron, 

throb of drill. 
Creaking shackle-rods and cables webbing every 

vale and hill 
For the white man's hope is centered — in his all- 
absorbing quest — 
In his leases, ever nearing, to the Gray Mound's 

rugged crest. 

"And the Injuns say," said Casey, foreman of the 

Tex-0-Kan, 
"That the ol' Gray Mound is ha'nted by the ghost 

of Mah-Che-Tan, 
One time big Comanche chieftain, vain at heart 

and strong of frame 
Feared and hated by his people — ^long before the 

white man came." 

Page 19 



Once upon a time, this warrior, so the Injun story 
goes, 

Led his party forth to battle with the Seminoles, 
his foes. 

Rode for many hours in silence till he glimpsed 
the Gray Mound's top, 

Then he signaled to his warriors for the long-ex- 
pected stop. 

"Now," says Mah-Che-Tan, the mighty, "I'll as- 
cend yon lonely hill 

And invoke the War god's curses on the tribe 
we go to kill." 

So, at length he gained the summit, flung his 
gaudy blankets wide 

Just in time to ketch the lightning in his copper- 
colored side. 

None could say just how it happened. Nary cloud 

was in the sky. 
And the whole caboodle beat it when they saw 

their ol' chief die, 
And for forty years, I reckon, not an Injun had 

the grit 
Nor the nerve to dim' ol' Gray Mound up to where 

their chief got hit. 
Often I have seen the lightnin' when the storms 

are ragin' high, 
Smite that ol' mound's limestone boulders with 

its long tongues from the sky, 
And I've seen the lone pine swayin' like a livin' 

thing in pain, 
Flingin' wide its ragged branches in the gusts of 

wind and rain. 

Page 20 



I can see just how the legend of the ol' chief's 
tragic fall 

Holds its portent through the ages — ^holds a mean- 
ing — after all, 

From his grave the lone pine sprouted and the 
spot from whence it grew 

Is the target for the arrows of the '*god of Mani- 
tou." 

Casey got the job of spudding when the Gray 

Mound lease was filed 
And he staked the well's location, timid as a little 

child. 

And we had to laugh at Casey, who had bravery 

to let, 
For his superstitious notions — when the spuddin' 

stake was set. 
For the lone pine was in splinters and the stump 

was used to brace 
The drilling rig and smoke stack and to anchor 

them in place. 
The driller, "Baldy Benson," looked a little bit dis- 
tressed, 
When he drove that ten-inch drive-pipe through 

the fallen chieftain's breast. 
Have you heard the story. Mister, how that Gray 

Mound well came in? 
Gosh, you never saw its equal. That's a fact, sir, 

sure as sin. 
Fifty feet above the derrick in a solid olive 

flow. 
Coursing downward like a river to the prairies 

just below. 

Page 21 



With a little gas to help it that old mound was 

like a tank 
With a dozen engines pumping and the devil at 

the crank. 
Stop it? Well, we tried to, Mister, but the 

shackles failed to stick 
And we had to wire the **Super" for a man to do 

the trick. 
Meanwhile, clouds were swiftly forming in a black 

mass in the South, 
Thunder sounded like the belching from a distant 

cannon's mouth. 
And we sought the camp's protection when the 

rain came driving down 
Shutting out the mound's dim outlines and the 

gusher on its crown. 
Then there came a bolt, terrific, like the splitting 

of the world. 
While a flame of fire shot skyward and the smoke 

clouds danced and whirled 
In a glaring conflagration down the Gray Mound's 

wounded side. 
Spreading fan-like to the prairies in a fearsome 

creeping tide. 

Well, she burned herself to ashes. Rig and shack, 

and tank and all 
And for days the black smoke hovered on the 

landscape like a pall. 
Vain they made repeated ventures. Set the rig 

down at its base, 
But the wells were merely "dusters" and of oil 

sand — not a trace. 

Page 22 



But for miles in each direction, spreading out- 
ward like a fan, 
Men are searching, ever searching, for the "pool" 

of Mah-Che-Tan. 
They have drilled in many good ones. Some have 

failed and some still yield. 
And a thousand blackened derricks dot that once 

prolific field. 
And, amid them, yet defiant; with a scar across 

its face. 
From the burning flood which seared it and which 

time cannot erase, 
That strange monolith of silence, like a warrior 

gaunt and gray, 
Will resist the god of Mammon — till the white 

man goes away. 



Page 23 



THE LUCK 0' BILL SMITHERS. 

Settled on a hill-side *'80." Wasn't wuth a tink- 
er's darn, 
Clap-board shanty — winders scanty, ol' straw 

sheds and lean-to barn. 
Had a flea-bit team o' hosses — one was lame an' 

'tother blind, 
Hitched on to a kivvered wagon, with a hound 

tied on behind. 
Settled th'ar without a prospec', settled th'ar 

without a dime, 
Borried corn and borried taters when it come to 

seedin' time. 
Never paid 'em back, I reckon, fer th' pesky hot 

winds came 
'Long about the fust o' August, swep' his corn- 

fiel' like a flame. 

Got disheartened, couldn't blame him. Had th' 

mor'gige raised a bit. 
Struggled through another season with a heap o' 

nerve an' grit. 
Hail-stuns fell as big as hen aigs when his crop 

was shoulder high 
And it made it look Uke swamp grass in th' twink- 

lin' of an eye. 
Fust 'twas drouth and next come hail-stuns, then 

'twas wet and then 'twas frost, 
Kaffir corn or cane or cowpeas, ol' Bill Smithers 

alius lost. 

Came a June when skies w'ar smilin'. Gentle 

rains had greened th' land, 
Plow-shares flashed their gleam o' promise. Life 

was brisk on every hand. 

Page 24 



Came a diamond studded stranger, broad o* girth 

and genial smile, 
'Lows he'll lease Bill's eighty acres. Thinks he'll 

find a little ile. 
Pays him eighty dollars bonus an' a share o' ile 

or gas 
And, o' co'se, oV Bill accepted. Couldn't let th' 

offer pass. 

Meanwhile corn an' wheat w'ar thrivin'. Prospec's 

good fer bumper yield. 
Fur as eye could scan th' landscape, wheat was 

yaller in th' field. 
Then th' drillers hit the ile sand at th' top o' 

Smithers' hill 
An' they penned a note an' sent it to th' onsus- 

pectin' Bill. 
"Screw in sand — two thousand twenty — bailin' 

shows a streak o' juice. 
Better raise yer shack on pilin' fer we're gonna 

turn her loose." 

This they did with maudlin' vengeance, down th' 

big hill's warty side, 
Floodin' out into th' wheat field in an evil-smellin' 

tide. 
Miles around we heered th' racket, oily spray 

a-spoutin' 'round, 
Leavin' half th' debt o' England runnin' loose 

upon th' ground. 
Caught ol' Bill above th' cowshed. Found him 

limp an' full o' woe, 
Gazin' at his blackened wheat field in th' slough 

o' ile below. 

Page 25 



Long he set an* viewed th* ruin. Grease was 

spreadin' to th' corn 
And his homely, bearded features took expression, 

all forlorn. 

"Failed agin. No use a-tryin'. Ever see sich 
cussed luck? 

Co'n in tassel, cane a-comin', an* th' ripe wheat 
in th* shuck. 

I kin rassle with th* hail=stuns; I kin rassle with 
th* drout*; 

I kin rassle with th* hot winds when they try ter 
knock me out. 

But Lawd-a-massy, neighbor, durin* all this tryin* 
while, 

I never dreamed they'd whup me with a shower- 
bath of lie." 



Page 26 



THE TIN CAN TRAIL. 

A passel of rock and a blotch of rust, 

A scorching wind and a veil of dust, 

Criss-cross ridges of black-jack trees. 

Their rasping sighs on the hell-bound breeze, 

Nothing ahve but a lean coyote 

And a buzzard aloft with his hissing note. 

Winging its flight in a tireless round, 

Awaiting the feast on the sun-baked ground, 

A bloated carcass — a dying steer, 

Rolling his eyes in a thirst-mad leer, 

A waterless spring and an old tin can 

And a stake driven there by the right o* way man. 

A bog in the jungle — a smother of rain, 

Creeper and vine in a tangled skein. 

Typhoid pools in their basin of mud, 

Cotton-mouthed moccasin swimming the flood. 

Hoot of an owl and cry of the loon, 

Each barren of cheer, each lacking in tune. 

Whine of mosquitoes, vendors of ill. 

Harbinger whines of quinine and pill. 

The rot of creation — cess-pool of time, 

Where the snake is supreme in a kingdom of 

slime. 
Yet here on a stump is a battered tin can 
And the blaze of the axe of the right o' way man. 

A storm on the prairie — a volley of hail. 
Snow-drifts veneered with a coating of mail. 
Razor-edged wind rushing down from the pole. 
Tearing the body, breaking the soul, 
A figure alone in this ocean of white. 
Steering his course in his race against night. 

Page 27 



To the goal of his hardships — off there to the 

West 
To the sheltering hills and the end of his quest, 
While back on his trail, on a storm-beaten ledge 
Is a bit of a stake, driven close to the edge 
And, tied to the stake is a battered tin can 
Containing the notes of the right o' way man. 

When the right o' way man is decrepit and old, 
And he sits, snugly housed, from the rain and the 

cold. 
When he sees, on the hill-side the derrick and tank 
And the town just below with its church and its 

bank. 
His thoughts will not dwell on the smooth auto 

trails 
Nor the incoming train nor the flash of the rails, 
But back to the days of his valor and youth 
When he battled with Doubt for a vision of Truth, 
When he pushed his brown strength through the 

rain and the sleet. 
That these trails might be safe to the oncoming 

feet. 
Just a man and his axe and his beans in a can, 
Just the big world and God and the right o' way 

man. 



Page 28 



THIRTY MINUTES. 

The lease would end at midnight on the twenty- 
third of May. 
The lessee, Silas Witherspoon, was thirty miles 

away. 
The lessor, Hiram Peterson, had sent a little 

wire: 
"You send that rental money, or your drilling 

rights expire." 
Now Silas didn't worry much. He'd bought it at 

a risk 
And drilling operations hadn't been so very 

brisk 
And, on the lands adjoining, where they'd drilled 

for quite a spell, 
They'd got a dozen "dusters" but they hadn't 

got a well. 

"It don't look good," said Silas, as he puffed a 

black cigar. 
"Besides, it costs like sixty — in these tryin' days 

o' war. 
Ten a day to pay the driller while the *toolie' gets 

his eight. 
Fuel and casing, pipe and cable, have advanced an 

awful rate, 
ril just let 'er go to blazes. She's a worthless 

lease, at best. 
I'll ignore ol' Hiram's message and the law will do 

the rest." 
Musing thus he sauntered townward in the balmy 

afternoon. 
As the golden sunflow'rs nodded to his gaily 

whistled tune. 

Page 29 



Lo — ^adown the dusty highway sped a horseman, 

riding fast, 
Flung these thrilling words at Silas as his broncho 

galloped past: 
"Got a gusher — section thirty — range and town- 
ship so and so — 
Thoned to me to order tackle to enchain its 

mighty flow." 
On he rode — his mustang snorting — till the hills 

hid him from view, 
While upon the brow of Silas formed a thousand 

beads of dew. 
"Section thirty — Lord a'mighty — so they brought 

that gusher in 
On the farm adjoining Hiram — I'm a sucker, sure 

as sin." 

Then he wildly grabbed his time-piece — all the 

while he softly swore — 
For his Waltham said "three-twenty" and the 

banks would close at four, 
And he couldn't wire the money, that was cinched 

as sure as fate, 
For the war-clogged Western Union would be 

fourteen hours late. 
Then, with spirits swiftly rising, in the one last 

hope to win, 
Silas sought the nearest garage and, for once, the 

boss was in. 
"Let me have your swiftest motor," was his one 

intense appeal, 
"I will buy it when I get there, for it won't be fit 

to steal." 

Page SO 



Up and down that dazzling roadway, through the 

flowered Kansas hills, 
Many speed fiends cut the ozone in a pace that 

sometimes kills. 
Yet there's none to break the record of that fate- 
ful afternoon — 
"Thirty miles in thirty minutes" made by Silas 

Witherspoon. 
Barney Oldfield has his records made on "billiard 

table" track. 
But he drove a Stutz or Mercer— not a wheezy 

Cadillac 
Which had run a million meters — something more 

or something less— 
With both rear tires torn to ribbons and a spark 

plug in distress. 

Even so, the famous Barney raced for purse and 

fleeting fame, 
Silas raced to pay his rental in a million dollar 

game, 
And a bank at Eldorado watched the clock hands 

climb to four. 
When this argonaut of oildom skidded to their 

very door. 
Hiram got his rental money, Silas held his precious 

right 
And, of course, the sequel follows: "Made a for- 
tune over night" 
And he wired the garage owner who had deemed 

his patron drunk: 
"Buy yourself another roadster. This one here 

ain't fit for junk." 

Page il 



OLD DEWEY SHANNON'S GAL. 

She came from out the sunset with its last long 

good night gleam, 
Paused against the crimson background like a 

goddess in a dream. 
Bonnet dangling, red hair tangling in the west 

wind's playful whirl. 
Varied tints — rose, gold and copper — shining 

in each wilful curl. 
Tall and supple, full of sweetness, like a stalk of 

sugar cane. 
Cheeks aglow the same as poppies freshened by 

a dash of rain, 
Fire and mischief, intermingled, in the deep blue 

of her eyes. 
Sunshine sifting through the cloudlands of their 

ever-changing skies. 
And her name was Sallie Shannon, but the town 

folks called her "Sal," 
And the gossips spoke in whispers of "Old Dewey 

Shannon's gal." 

Dewey Shannon was an outlaw in the early Kan- 
sas days. 

Drew a life term up at Lansing — to repent his 
evil ways. 

Got paroled for good behavior, sought his old- 
time haunts again. 

Shot and killed old Judge McGrady who had sent 
him to the pen. 

There's a shred of rope still hanging from the 
buckeye's twisted branch, 

Where they hung old Dewey Shannon on the hill 
above his ranch 

Page S2 



And, at evening, in the shadows of the night's 
encroaching host, 

Nervous folks declare the buckeye harbors Dewey 
Shannon's ghost. 

Now the crimson turned to purple and the purple 
turned to gray. 

Night shades capped the rugged hill top shutting 
out the sun's last ray. 

Wound afresh where gossip's arrows in her youth- 
ful heart had sunk, 

Sallie came in lone communion to the old tree's 

knotted trunk. 
Where she oft-times talked with "Daddy," child- 
hood's hero, friend and pal. 
While the bit of rope was swinging — over Dewey 

Shannon's gal. 
In the valley just beneath her lay a patch of shrub 

and stone. 
Shannon's "ranch" we sometimes called it, where 

Miss Sallie lived alone. 
All her shiftless daddy left her when he made his 

hurried will, 
Just before the grim procession started up the 

fatal hill. 

Edged by black-jack, sawtooth ridges, prickly 
pears and tumble weed, 

Sallie leased her meager acres, eking out her sim- 
ple need. 

Came a day the valley wakened to the swearing, 
sweatmg van 

Laying pipe and building derricks for the far- 
famed "Tex-0-Kan." 

Page S3 



Black oil bubbled in the ditches, filled the air with 

noxious smells, 
While a hundred tanks were brimming with the 

product from the wells. 
And a man looked o'er the landscape with a keen 

and practiced eye. 
Saw the Shannon hill's gray outlines flush against 

the western sky, 
Sent his lease man for inspection, while a note he 

briefly penned, 
"Northeast quarter, section thirty, lies directly in 

the trend." 

You have heard about the "gusher," "Sallie Shan- 
non, Number One?" 

How the olive stream shot skyward like a British 
aircraft gun? 

How the drill bit keen and richly in a deep, pro- 
lific sand 

Just below where Dewey's hangmen left the grue- 
some hempen strand? 

How the foreman razed the buckeye, "spudded in" 
where Shannon fell, 

Said he'd splice the straining cable to "the fuel 
tanks 0' hell?" 

And today where "longhorns" rambled in the 
days of long ago. 

Hammers drive the glowing rivets into tanks to 
catch the flow 

From the famous Shannon gushers, Number One 
and Two and Three 

Lining up in nice precision from the fallen buck- 
eye tree. 

Page 34 



Where once stood the lean-to cabin and the sheds 
and old corral, 

A handsome buff brick structure shelters Dewey 
Shannon's gal. 

When her super-six comes buzzing down the main 
stem of the town, 

There's a smile and nod of welcome where there 
used to be a frown. 

And the gossips, when they gather, and the tragic 
past recall. 

Sigh and say that Dewey Shannon had some vir- 
tues, after all. 

Hair piled high in red-gold masses 'neath her 
jaunty motor cap, 

Sallie's fame is fast enlarging "Limestone Center" 
on the map, 

And there's rumors of a wedding. Who the man 
is, you have guessed; 

He's the man who cut the buckeye where they 
"spudded" for the "test," 

And his name is Harry Blivvins, but the rough- 
necks call him "Hal," 

And he's got a lifetime contract with Old Dewey 
Shannon's gal. 



Page S5 



IN TEXAS. 

Down where the oil field whistles blow, 
Above the singing boilers — just below, 
The white exhaust coughs fretful at the soil 
Which trembles out its nauseous fumes of oil, 

In Texas. 

Down where the hedge of derricks rise 
Above the smoky ridges, to the skies 
The crown-block humming on each narrow peak 
Derides the awkward bull wheel's toilsome squeak 

In Texas. 

Down where once grew the cactus stalk, 
The walking beams of oildom walk and walk. 
The monster drills suspended from the crown 
Prod on in tireless rythm — up and down, 

In Texas. 

Down where the pagged black-jacks fringe the 

hill 
The festive hoot-owl mocks the whip-poor-will, 
The "cow-camp," once the theme of Texas lore. 
Has taken wing and it is seen no more 

In Texas. 

Where lariat once crossed the cattle trail, 
A bronco at the end, with drooping tail. 
The telegraph is strung athwart the sky 
And shackle-rods trip up the passerby 

In Texas. 

Page.S6 



They "make 'em over night" at Burkbumett. 
Men go in dry and come out greasy wet. 
But yesterday where all was quite serene, 
Today is one vast lake of kerosene 

In Texas. 

I knew a man down in the Ranger field, 
Who lost a million cold and never squealed. 
He borrowed all he could and tried again. 
He now is peer among the wealthy men 

In Texas. 

This man knew what it meant to lose his roll, 
But through it all he still retained his soul, 
And when Dame Fortune claimed him for a pet, 
She overlooked his soul — he's got it yet, 

In Texas. 

Some come out good ; some fare a harsher fate 
And beg for crumbs like Lazarus at the gate. 
But in the main, there's oil and oil to spare. 
The brokers claim they get it everywhere 

In Texas. 

Cheer up, ye man of little hope, 
Inhale the essence of the Wall Street dope; 
'*Buy Goose Creek common, under par, 
Just wait a year and there you are" 

In Texas. 



Page 37 



THE TANKS OF THE TEX-0-KAN. 

A roustabout with a courage stout 

And the title of "Dreamer Dan," 

* ''Herded" tanks and built fire banks 

On the lease of the Tex-0-Kan. 

Heart as big as a drillin' rig 

And as staunch as the old bull wheel, 

Straight as the stem and as strong as the bit 

And as true as its ringing steel, 

He would work all day in his dogged way, 

And at night, by the gas light's gleam, 

He'd flop, kerflunk, on his old straw bunk 

And dream — and dream — and dream. 



The country was new and his neighbors were 

few, 
And he lived in a pine-board shack. 
He bought his "feed" from a near-by Swede 
And toted it home on his back. 
He guarded the "grease" on the lonely lease 
In the land where the coyotes play 
And the whip-poor-will sends his creepy thrill 
As he warbles his tuneless lay. 
He'd battle the briars and the waste oil fires 
In the sloughs by the winding stream, 
And would strangle and choke in the oily smoke, 
But he'd never forget to dream. 



"By Gawd," said he, "on the old North Sea, 
Whar thoy breed them divin' boats, 
A fire like this 'u'd sizzle an' hiss 
An' sink any ship 'at floats. 

Page 38 



Jist give me a tank o* that fluid rank 

On the sea whar them danged things dwell, 

And rd open the hatch an' fling in a match 

An' give 'em a taste o' hell." 

He pictured the pranks of a string of tanks, 

All looped by a wire and a reel, 

Which would find the mark with its vicious spark 

And loosen the doom of Kiel. 

"Jist give me the 'grease* an' a good, stiff breeze. 

An' the tide when she flows inshore, 

An' Stan'ard ile will bubble an' bile 

Through the cracks in the K'iser's door." 

So, filled with the theme of his big day dream. 

That night in his cheerless shack, 

He wrote of his plan to a noted man 

With the Allied ships at his back. 

His paper was rude and his grammar was crude, 

But he wrote as a man who knew 

What the sluggish flood of Nature's blood 

Unleashed and afire would do. 

It's a long, long trail, by hoof or by rail. 

From Daniels to Dreamer Dan, 

And it's greater far from the scenes of war 

To the tanks of the Tex-0-Kan. 

But from Capitol dome to the pine-shack home. 

From Potomac to Cimarron, 

The land is ateem with dreamers that dream. 

For Dan is not dreaming alone. 

A dream bore the fruit of this carnage and loot, 

A vision will herald its fall. 

God help us to wait for that wonderful date 

And the happiest dream of them all. 

Page S9 



CHRISTMAS AT BALD HILL LEASE 

Jist me and the cook and a cross-eyed Swede, nine 

miles from a Jim Crow town, 
The day before Christmas — at Bald Hill lease, a 

blizzard whistlin' down, 
A pretty bum prospec' for Christmas, thinks I. 

Our larder was runnin' low. 
Our trusted "Tin Lizzie" was outa the game, 

stalled deep in a drift o' snow. 
The derricks loomed strange in their mantles of 

white. The tanks were small mountains 

of fleece. 
Nine miles from no-where, with nothin* to drink, 

snowbound on a lonesome lease. 

Said the Swede to me, "Dar*s a Grismus tree, 

dat bane about ten f ut tall. 
He grow by das strean. I go chop heem and 

dar ban a gran' Grismus fer all.'* 
But the cook said, "Well, that'll do to tell, but 

where be yer spangles and toys 
And where be yer gran'mas and uncles and aunts 

and where be yer girls an' boys? 
A tree may look purty with candles and things, 

with pop-corn and sweets by th' poun', 
But Christmas ain't Christmas, jist take it from 

me, without any youngsters aroun'." 

Jist then came a cry from a drift in the road an' 

later an infant's wail. 
The voice of a woman, too weak to shout; too 

weary to follow the trail. 

Page 40 



The husband had died in the Jim Crow town — 
of the *'flu," so the woman said, 

Then she turned a deaf ear to the offers of aid 
and tackled the bUzzard instead. 

With that flea-bit mule and the crazy rig, like a 

drift in a storm-swept sea, 
That missus was facin' the future alone — she 

with her babies three. 
Jist where she was bound and what she would 

find — jist what was her weary load, 
The God of the homeless alone could see, at the 

end of that long white road. 

She told it in tears, of their hopes and fears, of 

the welcome they'd hoped to find; 
Of the home they'd make; of the dull heart-ache 

for the husband she'd left behind 
And when she had finished, a silence fell — a 

silence profound and deep. 
A white star glimmered o'er Bald Hill lease. 

Three kiddies were fast asleep. 

A half hour later I looked for the Swede, but he 

and his axe had fled. 
But a message for me: *'Ay ban gone fer das 

tree," I found on his old straw bed. 
Then the cook sneaked in — with a cautious grin 

— with his mittens and ear-muffs on. 
**Goodbye," says he, **take keer o' yerself, I think 

I can make it by dawn. 
Jist lend me yer wallet till Casey comes out and 

warm up the bed fer the kids; 
or Santa's a comin' to Bald Hill lease if I have 

to fetch him on skids." 

Page U 



THE FREAK. 

Cast in a jet-black setting, 

Sharp on the screen of night, 
Glimmers the torch of the derrick. 

Swinging its arc of light. 
Shadowy, wierd and spectral. 

Figures that come and go. 
Silhouettes, dancing and swaying 

From crown block to decking below. 
Bull wheel looms large with its cable 

Groaning — now wound and unwound. 
Ribbons of steam from the boiler 

Hang Uke a cloak to the ground. 

Midnight is sounding its v/arning 

From a spire in a neighboring town. 
When *'Mac" yawns his sleepy *'Good morning" 

When Rankin comes rollicking down 
From the shack at the edge of the timber, 

To take his place at the screw. 
A "test through the lime" is the order 

And Rankin's to put her through. 
Three bells, then four from the steeple. 

Come the chimes but a mile away. 
Far eastward the stars are dimming; 

The sky wears a mantle of gray. 

The bit gnaws its way through the lime-stone 

Hard as the hinges of hate. 
"Great snakes, what a crust," grumbles Rankin 

And jots down the depth on his slate. 

Page 42 



"Twenty-six hundred and thirty. 

Log of formations is wrong. 
Passed where it says I should pick up the shale. 

Oh well, I'll just hammer along.'* 
At this minute the bull wheel went crazy. 

The walkin' beam broke in a run. 
A growl from the depths shook the heavens, 

Now a crash like a blast from a gun. 
Rankin sprang back to the throttle, 

The ''toolie" made straight for the light. 
Too late, for the belching of Satan 

Burst forth to tne world and the night. 

A flash and the derrick was ashes. 

The driller and toolie were dead. 
While the tongue of the demon unprisoned, 

Swept the sky in a passion of red. 
Maybe you've heard of that gasser, 

"Turkey Wing — Number Three," 
Immune to mechanical genius, 

The freak of the Cherokee? 
Just a bluff, for she drowned in a jiffy, 

But say — what a "cat" while she stayed. 
A man-killer just for the moment. 

Then whimpering, died like a jade. 

Eleven, then twelve, said the clapper 

Of the bell in the neighboring spire. 
And little OF Mac, with kit on his back 

Stood alone by the smouldering fire. 
Three bells, then four, then the dawning. 

In the East lay a curtain of fog. 
Mac grumbled and sleepily yawning. 

Made a note in his pocket-worn log: 

Page 43 



"Twentj^-six hundi'ed and forty. 

No shale at the foot of the cap. 

Half mile to the roof of Inferno, 

And Rankin's somewhere in the gap." 



Page U 



"DRY HOLE." 

He was what you'd call a "mover/* from Tampico 

to Vancouver, 
From Vancouver to the Andes in Peru, 
Couldn't stand the mountain fever, down and 

out, he had to leave her 
And he rambled back to Mother and Mizzou. 

Drilled a zinc well down at Joplin where his rosy 

hope went topplin' 
For he couldn't puncture anything but shale, 
Tried to drown his grief in *licker,' made the 

giddy townfolk snicker 
When the haled *'Dry-hole" O'Hooligan to jail. 

Yes, my dear, that's what they called him, though 
the Dry-hole prefix galled him. 

For his luck was known from Tulsa to the sea. 

Never pulled a real producer — just one o'n'ry lit- 
tle juicer 

And it "petered out" in sunny Cherokee. 



Drilled a string a "drys" in Texas. "Let him 

go before he wrecks us," 
Cried the frenzied corporation with the dough, 
Then he "moved" to California where they 

frowned and said "We scorn ye. 
Try Pike's Peak and drill for pebbles in the snow." 

Page 45 



Came a day when "Dry-hole" wandered — with his 

shekels well nigh squandered, 
To an Oklahoma town called Skiatook, 
Where a single rig was working, though its crew 

was sadly shirking. 
For the ''Last Hope" depth was written in the 

book. 

Cried the much-beflustered owner, "Let us put 

the kibosh on her," 
Then he turned to hear old "Dry-hole" at the 

door. 
"Let me have thine ear, you scoffer, I will make 

a friendly offer. 
Calm thyself and we will talk the matter o*er. 

"I will buy your little duster, make her come 

across or bust her. 
I will pay a hundred dollars for the chance. 
Fifty down and fifty after — if she proves a thing 

for laughter 
And a thousand cold — if I can make her dance. 

"All of this, of course, pervidin' you git off an' 

leave me ridin' 
With the rig and junk and b'iler, fer a spell. 
If I don't git ile by Friday, I will leave things 

nice and tidy 
And resoom my weary journey on to — well?" 

Deal was closed. "Dry-hole" got busy, tho' his 
head was sort o' dizzy; 

He had risked his last lone dollar on a throw, 

But his heart was full of gladness — gone his old- 
time sullen sadness 

As he gently moved the throttle to and fro. 

Page 46 



Fourteen six and fourteen seven. Fourteen ten 

and then eleven. 
Baled her out and found some "pea-cock" in the 

soup. 
"Still some hope," he whispered briefly, "the* 

'tis built on nothing, chiefly, 
Fm a pore neglected infunt with the croup." 

Then there came a distant mutter, like a house- 
wife churnin' butter, 

Then a gurgle — a la Joplin, at the bar. 

Then a stream of olive treasure — Mother Nature's 
fullest measure — 

Sprayed the derrick from the decking to the spar. 

Not just what you'd call a wonder but she made 

him rich, by thunder. 
And it sounds just Hke the fable in the book. 
Now they've cut the "Dry-hole" feature and they 

call him "lucky creature." 
He's the man that put the "sky" in Skiatook. 



Page 47 



NOT FOR SALE. 

There's a church-yard down at Ranger, just an 

acre, more or less. 
Where the south winds kiss the headstones in a 

lazy, soft caress. 
Where the chinaberry shelters all that sleep be- 
neath its shade, 
'Neath the mounds grass-grown and hidden, 'neath 

the fresh ones, newly made. 
Some are there who fought for Texas in the 

tragic long ago 
When the swarthy Santa Ana brought his hordes 

from Mexico 
And there's some who risked the desert when 

the great red West was young 
And whose deeds are still unwritten, seldom told 

and seldom sung. 

Flowers bloom and die at Ranger in that sacred 

acre lot. 
Jessamine and wild rose linger lest the sleepers 

be forgot. 
Here and there a broken bottle holds a spray of 

withered bloom. 
Bits of colored glass and china brighten up some 

sombre tomb. 
And, above it all, a belfry casts its long, lean 

shadows down 
Like a hand outstretched for silence to the clamor 

in the town. 
When the western dusk has fallen, springs a 

ring of garish light 
And the fevered pulse of Progress beating tire- 
less, through the night. 

Page 48 



All around the quiet church yard and the meetin' 
house beyond, 

Is a hedge of blackened derricks where the mon- 
ster drills respond 

To the tug of groaning cables as the beams nod 
to and fro, 

Delving deeper — ever deeper to the treasure far 

below. 
Tanks attest the wealth of Midas, pipe-lines strain 

to hold the flood, 
There's a prince's ransom wasted in the sloughs 

of amber mud. 

Yet the cry is ''Give us leases. Every acre means 
a well. 

Crowd the grave-yard over yonder. Force the 
board- to lease or sell." 

All of oildom knows the answer, when the chair- 
man shook his head. 
Gazing past the man of millions, at the city of 

the dead. 
"There is room enough in Texas" — here he waved 

his palsied hand — 
"There are countless acres open and there's oil in 

every sand. 
Why disturb the weary tenants in yon narrow 

strip of sod? 
'Tis not ours, but theirs — the title vested by the 

will of God. 
We, the board, have talked it over, pro and con, 

without avail. 
We reject your hundred thousand. Merriman is 

not for sale." 

Page 49 



Down the long sand trails of Texas, when the 

great red West was young, 
Men have fought the savage desert where now 

thriving towns have sprung. 
Where the busy derricks rumble and the drills 

bite keen and deep. 
Many bones today are bleaching, where these 

martyrs fell asleep. 
Yet, above the trampled prairies and the oil man's 

reckless tread, 
Texas still may flaunt her banner. All her heroes 

are not dead. 
And that Baptist church at Ranger, old and dingy, 

ha'f decay, 
With its belfry shadows falling on its plot of 

precious clay. 
Is a monument, eternal, on that long, dim Texas 

trail, 
Standing guard above the grave-stones in a lot 

that's "Not for Sale.'' 



Page 50 



THE HAUNTS OF EDEN. 

D'ye recall the toll-gate, Jasper, and the moss- 
grown kivvered bridge? 

And the peach bloom in the valley and the haw 
bloom on the riage? 

D'ye recall the weepin' willers in the big bend 

by the mill, 
Whar we fished and dreamed at sunset when the 

great green world was still? 

D'ye recall the ripplin' water where the big bass 
leapt in play, 

While the minners in the riffles sought the 
depths in wild dismay? 

Can ye hear the oar-locks clickin' and the gentle 
slappin' note 

Of the waves upon the plankin' of our crude flat- 
bottomed boat? 

'Tain't a day's ride yander, Jasper, in these days 

o' gas and steam, 
Down to whar the shiftin' sunshine gilds the 

hilltop and the stream, 
But the hills are full o' noises and the stream is 

half aflame. 
Smoke clouds veil the haunts o' Eden since the 

pesky pipe line came. 

Hark ye back to springtime, Jasper, when our 

hearts were young and gay, 
Ridin' down the pike in Eden, you with Susan, 

me with May, 

Page 51 



All 0* Eden's church bells ringin', locust blossoms 

scent the air, 
Them and jist a sprig o' haw bloom nestlin* in 

the sweetheart's hair. 

Years have passed, I grant ye, Jasper, since the 

oV mill turned a wheel. 
High and dry our boat is lyin', weather warped 

and rotten keel. 
He and steam have kilt the willers and the big 

bass leaps no more 
Fer to ketch the phantom minners as he did in 

days o' yore. 

Leaky pipe lines, creakin' cables, pump and der- 
rick, tank and drill. 

Shackle rods and rivet hammers clatter whar it 
once was still. 

Peace of earth and God A'mighty, boyhood 
dreams o' love and fame. 

Vanished from the haunts of Eden when the 
pesky pipe line came. 

In that rocker over yander sits the girl ye knew 
as May, 

Tears to me I see a haw bloom in her coils o* 
silver gray. 

Yes, we sold the hillside forty jist above the 
wilier bend. 

Which the experts figgered rightly as the rich- 
est in the trend. 

Page 52 



Brownstun fronts don't ease the yearnin' ; limous- 
ines, though easy-Hke, 

Lack that rhythmic sway and canter of a good 
hoss on the pike. 

May and me, we often hanker for the moss-grown 
kiwered bridge, 

And the hazy, lazy moonlight, over Eden's vale 
and ridge. 

What is gold — come, tell me, Jasper, when our 

joys are in the dross? 
What is wealth if, once we've gained it, bitter 

tears betray our loss? 

Sentiment must bow to Progress; Eden now is 
but a name; 

Romance fled before the hammer — when the 
pesky pipe line came. 

What is that you're saying, mother, — **Eden had 
its thistles, too?" 

Yes, I grant 'twas mostly thistles for the httle 
ones and you. 

After all, let's have the Progress; life can't al- 
ways be the same. 

And I sort o' like the racket — since that eight- 
inch pipe line came. 



Page 5S 



THE STRETCHING OF SLIVVER O'NEIL. 

You have heard about Shvver O'Neil — the *'Bean," 
The Kentucky Wonder from Bowling Green ? 
Nigh six feet ten in his sockless feet 
With a head as bald as a sugar beet. 
Well, Bean had a heart like a free lunch sign 
Hung from his neck with a piece o' twine 
Readin' like this: 'I've space to let 
To all who may enter. Come in? You bet." 
And most of us fell — like the cat in the well 
And picked out a "space" for a right long spell; 
Fer Bean was the goods and the sign was true 
And there we stuck like a miser Jew. 

Comin' or goin' 'twas all the same, 

Drunk or sober, wild or tame, 

We all looked alike to Slivver O'Neil 

Who stood six ten on a sockless heel. 

But this is the story — it won't be long, 

But the romance would fit in a soul-stirring song. 

Jist a httle ol' dog with a flea-bit hide. 

Which rangea on the lease by the river side 

Where the great black rigs of the Tex-0-Kan 

Circled away like an opened fan. 

Big hole wells in a sandy sweep — 

Eighteen inch fer the wells are deep — 

A man-sized job in a man-sized land 

And a good half mile to the upper sand. 

At Number Eight when the tools were out 

And the "toohe" was dressin' the big drill snout, 

Along comes a rabbit — lickety-split 

An' scoots right over the red-hot bit 

And into the hole and outa sight, 

Down to the depths of eternal night 

Page 54 



With the pup at his heels so sure of his meat, 
He went in too — fer a hundred feet. 
The fire bell rang and the whistles blew 
And the lease boss summoned a willin' crew, 
But Slivver rushed up, with a stifled sob 
And volunteered for the fishin' job. 

We tied a rope to his scrawny shin 

And said "good-bye" as he headed in. 

He got the pup fer we heard him yell 

A faint *'Heave to" from the big-hole well 

And up he came with the grateful pup — 

Then things went wrong at half-way up, 

Fer there he stuck while we heaved and swore 

And wondered if Slivver's shins were sore. 

Then all of a suddint he comes ag'in 

An' we pulls him out with a welcome grin. 

And he had the pup by his stubby tail, 

An' the dog, Great Snakes, I'll go to jail 

If what I'm sayin' aint Gospel true, 

He had that pore httle rabbit, too. 

When the excitement dwindled down 

And we went to our bunks in oF camp town. 

Bean says, "By Heck, I'm a narvous wreck," 

As he fondled a scar on his scrawny neck. 

"That collar button had m' goat. 

It ketched betwixt th' pipe an' m' throat. 

But th' last yank you made pulled it outa m' shirt 

An' let me come clean — but D — how it hurt!" 

So that is the story of Sliwer O'Neil 

Who measured six ten in his sockless heel. 

But the stretchin' he got in that gruesome hole 

Len'thened him out like a telegraft pole 

And, instead o' six ten as it uster be, 

Slivver O'Neil measures seven three. 

Page 55 



THE CHANGE AT LIMESTONE CENTER. 

Thar's a dozen rigs adrillin' and thar's ile tanks 
by th' swarm 

Wh'ar they once raised sweet pertaters on th' 
William Simpkins farm. 

Now or Bill rides into market in a motor car 
de luxe 

Where he uster ride a wagon with a cushion made 
o' shucks. 

Now he drives his super-seven on a special hand- 
made trail 

Where was once a gumbo "waller" when he driv 
in fer his mail, 

And he uster tell th' Missus, when she kissed his 

•ITT V> i clrpypH (*f\ pp K 

'1^1 be home, if God'll let me, by th' middle o^ th' 
week." 

Now he makes it in a jiffy, be it rain or be it 
droutn. 

Coin* north, he sometimes sidetracks fer him- 
self agoin' south. 

And th' squirrels by th' roadside miss his cus- 
tomary call, 

Fer they've beat it to th' bottoms wh'ar th' trees 
are thick and tall. 

Thar's a pore misguided cat-fish in the shallers 
o' th' crick, 

Lyin' prone upon his dorsal, mighty thin and 
mighty sick. 

Time was he could stem th' riffles, chasin' bull- 
frogs swift and green. 

Ere th' ile wells up at Simpkins' doused th' crick 
with kerosene. 

Page 56 



Sich is life at Limestone Center since the flock 

of ile wells came. 
Folks that uster be real human now have riz to 

wealth and fame. 
He may bring its Pope-Toledos ; bring its summer 

homes and sich, 
It may change a two-bit Jasper to a magnate, 

lousy rich. 
But it cannot change a friendship that has found 

its root in tears 
And has fed on tribulation through a score o' 

hungry years. 

Bill dolls up in new palm britches and his cut- 
aways and frocks 
And I've heered he wears a wrist watch and a pair 

o' dollar socks. 
As I pause in retrospection and the long, lean 

years recall, 
I kin ricollec' when William didn't wear no socks 

at all. 
And th' Missus chewed a snuff stick and she 

wore a gingham gown, 
Usin' balin' wire f er hair-pins when she had to go 

to town. 
And I sometimes think Bill misses all that made 

his life wuth while 
Since his hard-won eighty acres got its bath o' 

Empire ile. 



Page 57 



WHEREVER YOU HAPPEN TO BE. 

(A Thanksgiving Poem) 

All over the oil fields, Boys and Girls, 

Wherever you happen to be, 
If out on a lease in the wild Osage 

Or a lease in the Cherokee, 
If up on the plains of the Sunflower State 

Or the turbulent Caney's banks, 
Lift up your heart in a silent prayer. 

Give thanks today — Give thanks. 

All over the oil fields. Boys and Girls, 

Wherever you worship today. 
Be it out in the marshes of Skiatook 

Or the sands of the Chickasha, 
Though your voice be lost in a shrill '^exhaust," 

Or lost in a field of tanks, 
Lift up your heart in a silent prayer. 

Give thanks today — Give thanks. 

All over the old fields. Boys and Girls, 

Wherever you happen to dine, 
If it's turkey with dressin,* with Grandfather's 
blessin' 

Or a **snack" by a cold pipe-line. 
If it's 'possum or shoat at a table de hote, 

Or a steak from a fat cow's flanks. 
So lift up your hearts in a silent prayer. 

Give thanks today — Give thanks. 

Page 58 



All over the oil fields, Friends of mine, 

Be you humble, or middhn', or great. 
Be you ^'Supers" or "Tankies," we're all of us 
Yankees 

We've never been conquered — to date. 
We have Hcked the big German and other such 
vermin 

All praise to the boys in the ranks. 
So lift up your heart in a silent prayer. 

Give thanks today — Give thanks. 



Page 59 



WAR-TIME POEMS 



THE GREATER GIFTS 

Meet me half-way on the Bridge o' Dreams 

Boy that I love so well, 
And bring me the bliss of your soldier kiss 

And the heart 'neath your brown lapel; 
Bring me the tears of your yester-years, 

And your prayers to my waiting knee ; 
Bring me your smiles to the Bridge o' Dreams, 

And that will be Christmas for me. 

ril come all the way on the Bridge o' Dreams, 

Boy of my heart's dehght. 
And I'll bring you — in fancy — the things you like, 

When Santa Glaus comes tonight; 
But the greater gift is a Mother's love, 

Though your presents be small and few; 
Tonight then, at eight, I'll be there sure as Fate 

With my Christmas gifts. Sonny, for you. 



Page 61 



HOW STRAYFOOT SETTLED DOWN. 

"Strayfoot" was his title, Pete McGinnis was his 

name. 
Got his title from the home folks in the old town 

whence he came. 
Saw some service on the Border, once h*d crossed 

the Rio Grande, 
When the greasers started trouble in that hell- 
infected land. 
Failing there to ease the hunger of his vagrant 

soul to roam, 
Got discharged and paid a visit to the old folks 

back at home; 
Stayed a single day, then drifted from the quiet 

Kansas town. 
And his people sighed and wondered if he*d ever 

settle down. 

Like a festered scar, cut deeply, in the troubled 
face of France, 

Stretched a trench where weary "poilus" waited 
orders to advance. 

Gray the day and gray the spirits of the men who 
formed the line, 

Naught but hope for France and freedom kept 
their faces to the Rhine. 

Caked with mud, his beard in stubble, gone his 
old-time smile and brag, 

Strayfoot's heart ached for a vision of his coun- 
try and his flag. 

Meanwhile gossips back in Kansas in a little cross- 
roads town, 

Wondered at his prolonged absence — wondered if 
he'd settled down. 

Page 62 



March passed by in sullen deadlock in that tense 
and grewsome game, 

Move and counter-move in order left war's chess- 
board just the same. 

Hindenburg, somewhere in Flanders, moved his 
bishop, king and pawn. 

Vainly striving for a "checkmate," while a breath- 
less world looked on. 

Came the day, the sixth of April, when the news 
reached Strayfoot's ear, 

"Woodrow Wilson signs the war bill, U. S. troops 
will soon be here." 

While a girl in far-off Kansas heard the news with 
worried frown, 

"Where, oh, where, is Pete McGinnis — Will he 
ever settle down?" 

Suddenly, the fog banks lifted and the Germans 

got the range. 
Then, from weeks of trench stagnation, came a 

swift and tragic change. 
Bursting shell and poisoned gases for the Teutons 

cleared a path. 
Swept the field and choked the trenches with the 

victims of their wrath. 
"Retreat," the order sounded, sharp above the 

shrapnel's whine, 
"Each man out and take your chances, till you 

reach the second line." 
At about this time in Kansas, somewhere in a Httle 

town, 
A mother prayed that Strayfoot would come home 

and settle down. 

Page 6S 



Strayfoot did not hear the order, or, if hearing, 
did not heed, 

For his eyes were on the Germans coming on with 
quickened speed. 

With his automatic popping through the smoke's 
confusing veil. 

Sought to stem the awful torrent of that enfilad- 
ing hail. 

Two hours later, cheering poilus, winning back 
their precious ground, 

Stumbled on the lone defender, bleeding from a 
fatal wound. 

And they wired, at his dictation, to a little Kan- 
sas town, 

"Stopped a southbound German bullet. Tell the 
bunch I've settled down." 

Out in Kansas, where the sunflow'rs and the 

black-eyed Susans grow. 
Where the prairie schooners rumbled o'er the 

trails of long ago. 
One today may hear the rumble of the army 

trucks and vans. 
And the tread of brown-clad troopers as they 

train to fight in France. 
Some day, in the golden distance, when the world 

shall be at peace. 
And the strident voice of Justice shall command 

this war to cease. 
We will take the time to hnger in a little Kansas 

town. 
And hear again the story of "How Strayfoot Set- 
tled Down." 

Page 64 



LITTLE MISS CIGARETTE. 

Wee slip of a thing, in your one-piece dress, 

As white as the lips you so fondly caress, 

You are frail, yet your strength is more potent 

than wine, 
And the breath you exhale is as nectar divine. 
A httle brown soul, like the dust of a rose, 
Cooling and sweet, to both palate and nose, 
A waft to the heart, like a message from home, 
A friend, ever near, when on land or on foam, 
A ray in the trench and a warmth in the chill. 
And a rest in the lull when the shrapnel is still. 

A spur to the charge when the vision turns red. 
And a solace supreme to the hospital bed. 
The kiss of a sweetheart in dream-land afar 
Is found in your soul in the hazards of war. 
Along with Old Glory, the flag of the free, 
You're America, home, and a sweetheart, all three. 
You surely deserve — for the pain you relieve, 
A Red Cross stamp on your snow-white sleeve. 
And yet, in the ethics of Church and of State, 
Your name is reviled in both song and debate. 

We grant that your smiles when the world is at 

peace, 
Are courted too much and the habit should cease. 
But there in the land where all pleasure has flown 
And the senses ''go West," in that gray monotone, 
Through the leagues of destruction, of pain and 

of death. 
Comes a cargo of joy in you sweet-scented breath. 
So we pray that the huts of the Y. M. C. A. 
Will open their doors and bid you to stay, 

Page 65 



That the ships of old ocean, afloat on the tide, 
Will give you free space to that grim Other Side. 

We hope that your critics, wherever they be. 
Will remove their objections ; that you may be free 
To establish yourself in each tired Sammie's kit 
And along with his beans, do your God-given bit. 
We are for you, because, when the blizzard is high, 
And at home by our firesides we're cozy and dry, 
In the trench you are with him — to help him for- 
get 
In the bliss — of your kiss — little Miss Cigarette. 



Page 66 



GOOSE-QUILL. 

Copper colored, wild and reckless, fearing neither 

God nor law, 
Ranging like a lone, lean coyote, o'er the prairies 

of the Kaw. 
Tried to tame him at Chilocco, but they couldn't 

make him stay; 
Killed a hostler, stole a broncho, gave a yell and 

rode away. 

That's the last they saw of "Goose-quill," tho' 
they trailed him near and far. 

Till, at last, the trailers scattered for the grim- 
mer game of war. 

Keen-eyed men of wind and weather, born and 
raised to shoot and ride. 

Doffed the leather, donned the khaki, for that 
frowning Other Side. 

In the meanwhile, into Guthrie, when the draft 

was fairly on. 
Skulked the one-time famous "Goose-quill," like 

a wolf before the dawn. 
There, disguised, before the sergeant, made his 

mark upon the sheet. 
But the signature above it gave the name of 

"Ponca Pete." 

Came a day — before St. Quentin and our troops 

must take the town. 
Aided by the French and British, men in gray 

and men in brown. 
Men of equal strength and valor; cream of West 

and cream of East, 
Pitting wit against a system of the tryant and 

the Beast. 

Page 67 



In the shadow of the trenches, just before the 

order came, 
"Goose-quill" crouched in stoic silence in that 

tense and waiting game. 
Came the order. Like a panther, with his throaty 

* Injun" wail, 
"Goose-quill" cleared the barbed wire tangle as 

a greyhound strikes the trail. 

Slew the brace of Huns behind it, caught them 

up and threw them down. 
Leapt above the heads of others — fought his way 

into the town. 
There he gave a grim accounting to the great 

"White Chief" at home, 
For his many sins committed in the land across 
the foam. 

Whether blood lust is the answer to his reckless 

courage shown, 
Or if something, long forgotten, bade his savage 

heart atone. 
Will forever be a secret, which the world may not 

define, 
In the deeds which forced the "Terror" to the 

east bank of the Rhine. 

Peace prevails in Oklahoma. War is fading with 

its thrills. 
Calm has settled, like a blessing, through the 

Kaw land's wooded hills. 
'Round the council fires at midnight, many chiefs 

of copper hue. 
Smoke their pipes and offer praises to the god 

of Manitou. 

Page 68 



Sons, who fought and proved their valor, have 

returned to dance and f est, 
Each has shown his tribal mettle — each has stood 

the acid test. 
Yet, there's one who sits in silence, quite apart 

and quite alone. 
Gray and toothless, bent and saddened by the 

night's incessant drone. 

He's the aged sire of * 'Goose-quill," hiding like a 
hunted hare, 

Somewhere in the "Bull Creek" country, where 
the posses seek his lair. 

Now, he hears a chieftain speaking: "There is 
one who went away. 

Who, the records say, fell fighting in the thick- 
est of the fray. 

"We know not this brave youth's father, for the 

white man's 'honor' sheet 
Bears the name which tells us nothing — ^it is 

written Tonca Pete'." 
Here the gaunt old sire of "Goose-quill" bows his 

head upon the mat; 
"Would my son had gone to battle! Would my 

son had died like that!" 



Page 69 



DAD'S WAR. 

We raised a cheer as the time drew near 

For the soldiers to enter the train, 
But the cheer was forced and the tear-drops 
coursed 

Down our cheeks Hke a dash of rain. 
Somewhere from the crowd, came a sob, aloud, 

Somewhere was a sweetheart's sighs, 
But Dad, aside, showed naught but pride 

In the look of his keen gray eyes. 

"By gum, that's him! That's my boy, Jim, 

In the winder jist th'ar to yer right. 
That young b'ar cub'll pine fer his grub. 

But he'll pine a heap mo' for a fight." 
He elbowed his way for a warm hand-clasp 

To the boy in the suit of brown, 
Then turned away to the waiting shay 

And drove, in a walk, to town. 

Life's joy was gone with his only son. 

But the pride in his heart remained. 
None knew of the strife in the father's breast 

When his young "b'ar cub" entrained. 
But he tightened his grip on the buggy whip, 

While a flush o'er his features played; 
The war was afar to the lad who went, 

It was here to the Dad who stayed. 



Page 70 



FIVE STARS AND A CROSS OF GOLD. 

The little Irish mother kissed her youngest son 

good-bye. 
He was fourth and last to answer to his country's 

urgent cry. 
Her nttle world was shattered. Aged, helpless, 

all alone. 
She turned into the shadows of the quaint old 

house of stone. 
Then, along the darkened hallway to her little 

sitting room, 
She knelt before the Virgin, shining dimly, in the 

gloom. 
On the wall beside it, smihng, in his army suit 

of blue. 
Was the picture of the father, dating back to 62. 

Here and there hung crayon portraits of her boys, 

some young, some grown, 
And a daughter, long departed, ere the bud to 

rose had blown 
And, above the horse-hair sofa, in the waning light 

revealed. 
Hung the crimson flag of service, with four stars 

upon its shield. 
One in honor to the father. Captain Jack, of Shiloh 

fame. 
Three for those who'd joined the colors, long be- 
fore the draft law came. 
Now, with palsied hands upHf ted and a heart stab 

in her breast. 
The mother pinned the fifth star in its place 

among the rest. 

Page 71 



Summer passed. The guns of Flanders gleaned 
their harvest, red and dire. 

Men went down in tens of thousands 'neath the 
cycles of their fire. 

Fearfully the Irish mother watched the stars upon 
the shield. 

Tvv'o were dead, a third was wounded, fourth still 
fighting on the field. 

Then a message, late in August, found her watch- 
ing in the night, 

Told her how the fourth had fallen in the thick- 
est of the fight. 

One star left, its Hght was feeble, "Almost gone," 
a comrade wrote, 

"Shrapnel wound,'* no hope was offered in his 
briefly written note. 

Then the grim old mother faded when the last 

faint hope had flown, 
Like the fragrant wind-blown climbers on the 

quaint old walls of stone. 
On the casket where she slumbered, lay the flag 

of service wrought. 
Sunshine filtered through the shutters in the 

house that God forgot. 
And the aged priest was saying, while a tear 

shone in his glance, 
"Greater were this mother's battles than those 

fought in distant France. 
Vastly was her valor greater than of husband or 

of son. 
For she gave five lives to glory, while the others 

gave but one." 
Then he bent above the banner and, with fingers 

gnarled and old. 
In the center laid his tribute — laid his cross of 

virgin gold. 

Page 72 



SONG OF THE WRIST WATCH. 

Ticking away to the fatal hour, 
Strapped to a wrist of brawny power, 
Snug to a vein of good, red blood, 
Pulsed from heart in eager flood, 
Down to finger tips clutching a gun, 
Gripping it tight, like the throat of a Hun, 
Little wrist watch keeps a-tickin' along, 
Purring away in a rythmical song, 

Puzzle-*em-Sam, muzzle-* em-Sam, 
Shuffle-* em-ruffle-' em-scuffle-' em., Sam. 

Face looking up into face looking down, 
Smile greeting smile and frown meeting frown. 
Hand touching hand and soul cheering soul. 
Doing their turn on the midnight patrol. 
Gay little ticker— a gift from his *'gal," 
A token from mother, or, maybe, a pal. 
Busy wrist watch keeps a-tickin' along. 
Purring away in a rythmical song. 

Shake-* em-up-Sam, wake-*em-up-Sam, 
Hurry-*em-worry-*em-curry-'em, Sam. 

Some day in the lull of a hot afternoon. 
The ticker will change to a different tune. 
An order will come and the trenches will hum. 
The tension will snap like an overtaut drum, 
A million brown hornets all eager to sting 
Against the oppressor their vengeance will fling, 
And the httle wrist watch'll go tickin' along. 
Snapping away in a battle-mad song. 



Throttle-' em-Sam, bottle-*em-Sam. 
Batter-'em-scatter-'em-shatter-'em-Sam. 



Page 75 



Time will come soon when the dial will tell, 
A plunge from the throne to a bottomless hell. 
Time will come soon when the ticker will say: 
"The kaiser is shackled forever and aye." 
Straight up go the hands to the peak of the night, 
A new day is ushered for God and the right. 
And little wrist watch'll keep tickin' along. 
Purring its joy in a jubilant song. 

Bully toy, Sam, ship ahoy, Sam, 
Stack-^em-up, pack-*em-up, home again, Sam. 



Page 74 



SAM AND I. 

I met Sam Brown, a friend of mine, 
And took him home with me to dine. 
We talked at length of this and that, 
As friends will do in random chat. 
Sam says to me: "How comes it, Joe, 
You're not arrayed agin the foe?" 
And I replied with rising heat, 
"Flat feet." 

The talk veered 'round to safer ground ; 
We spoke of Sammies — kaiser bound. 
"They'll git him, too," says Sam to me. 
His fat sides shakin' in his glee. 
"Well, Sam," says I, "Why ain't you in? 
I thought you would be, sure as sin." 
He sighed and rubbed his shining pate, 
"Over weight." 

Flat feet and over weight, indeed. 
We both had long since gone to seed, 
But each, in vanity, ignored 
The real cause — in our conscience stored — 
Of why we'd failed to qualify 
To "tote" a gun or learn to fly 
Along with younger men enrolled, 
"Too old." 

The night wore on. The fire was low. 
*Twas gittin' time for Sam to go. 
When "Sam," says I, "let's jine the ranks 
Of those who serve with scanty thanks. 



Page 75 



We both can do our bit at home 
As well as those across the foam. 
Let's you and me help pay the price, 
In sacrifice." 

"Let's bind the wounds the guns have wrought, 
By plankin' down our last ten-spot. 
For some must work as well as fight, 
To win for freedom and the right 
And every nurse we send to France 
Will give the boys a better chance. 
Let but one thought our hearts engross, 
Red Cross.'' 

Now Sam and me work side by side 
To check that rising crimson tide 
And on Picardy's shell-swept plain 
We strive to hush the cries of pain. 
No matter if the gruesome fray 
Is some three thousand miles away. 
Old Sam and me we pitch right in 
And grin. 

God help the cause! God help the men 
Who fight that right shall live again! 
God bless the noble Red Cross nurse, 
God bless the man with ready purse ! 
Get out upon the working line, 
And let your latent talents shine. 
What if we fill a pauper's grave? 
What if we suffer, starve and slave? 
If but a single boy we save — 
Git busy! 

Page 16 



WE'RE GOING BACK. 

You've read of deeds of valor at the front, 
Where men have given ground, or stood the brunt ; 
You've heard of thriUing exploits in the air, 
And many things accomplished over there. 
You've throned your heroes high within your 

mind, 
And crowned each one with laurels of a kind. 
Yet in your treasure-house is stored 
The crowning wreath of gold and silver sword 
With which your superhero to adorn 
When once — among them all — a peer is born. 

I also make confession that I, too. 

Have searched the glowing records through and 

through ; 
I've quite a list of those who died that we 
Might live and eat the fruits of liberty. 
My list are those ot Arras and Champaigne, 
Of Seicheprey, at Ypres and the Aisne, 
And, noble though it be, and clothed in fame, 
It lacks the "super-god," the deed, the name. 
All this it lacked. I wondered if, in time 
I'd find the subject of my theme Divine. 

July the fifteenth dawned in Northern France. 
The German guns announced a new advance. 
A vicious thrust was made in force at Vaux, 
Where Ludendorff had reckoned on a flaw — 
^The flimsy link of all that iron chain 
From Ypres to the trenches of Lorraine. 
His giant guns were centered on the spot 
And dropped a rain of shrapnel, sizzling hot, 
Before, above, behind the AUied trench, 
Where Yankees hinged the British and the French. 

Page 77 



Now, comes an order from the high command, 
Not clearly understood m Yankee-land : 
*'The German fire is growing more intense — 
Fall slowly back to lines of new defense." 
With puzzled frown, the boys in brown obeyed 
And yielded, when the first attack was made. 
But slowly and grudgingly they went 
With shame at heart and growls of discontent. 
The leader gravely eyed his lagging men 
As to the north he turned his gaze again, 
Then to a waiting aide he sharply whirled 
And spoke a message — heard around the world : 

"My compliments to G. H. Q. convey. 
And say the ranks of brown will meet the gray; 
The flag's at stake; a cause is all but lost. 
Why should we yield and answer for the cost? 
America sent men to France to fight — 
To win the cause for freedom and the right. 
The flag is here with men to hold it high ; 
Its mandate is To conquer or to die.' " 
Then, squarely turning to the Hun attack, 
He snapped the words: "'Bout face, we're going 
back." 



From out that scene of tragedy and strife 

My superhero blossomed into life ; 

No crown of gold, no panoply of power. 

No blare of trumpets, pomp, nor wreath, nor 

flower. 
A quiet, sun-browned man from oversea — 
Firm-lipped beneath the banner of the free; 
Clear-eyed, clean-cut — alike in thought and frame. 
He bared his breast between his flag and shame. 

Page 78 



A vengeance, sweeping onward in its might, 
He leads his husky "doughboys" in the fight. 

And back they went through rain of biting steel ; 
In veils of poison mist they halt and kneel. 
To whip their barking Maxims into line, 
To hew a path of glory to the Rhine. 
Those briefly-spoken words, "We're going back," 
Supplied the spirit which the others lack. 
Like water to the wheel, the wheel to mill, 
The whole line answered to the thrill. 
"We're going back," thus spake a Yankee son, 
"And so are we," rephed the fleeing Hun. 



Page 79 



BILL. 

Full six feet, two. Just that, 

Just tall and broad and strong — not fat. 

His eye, a cold steel blue when he was mad, 

But sparklin' like a spring when he was glad, 

Fer Bill was young — too young to realize 

That one could read his f eelin's in his eyes. 

Was Bill. 

"Zip, boom!" went Fritz's gun, like that; 
Just snappy-like and spiteful — like a cat. 
I ducked below ; my hat flew from my head. 
And then the bloomin' universe turned red, 
Fer Bill was down. A ragged bit o' shell 
Had caught the lad a clipper, and he fell, 

Did Bill. 

"By God," said Bill— just that- 
Just solemnly, impressively and flat ; 
No disrespect was meant and none was heard 
To Diety in that softly spoken word. 
I sometimes think he meant it as a prayer — 
The only one he knew fer fair, 

Did Bill. 

"By God," he said again — ^just that; 

He staggered to his feet and found his hat. 

A small, black stain v/as spreading on his coat, 

He loosed the chokin' collar at the throat. 

"Goodby, old pal," he said, "I'm done. 

But tell 'em all I got myself a Hun," 

Said Bill. 
Page 89 



I saw him go, like that; 

Just like another Corbett to the mat ; 

I saw him poise, his gun at downward dip, 

His elbow stickin' outward from the hip. 

I saw his swayin' body raise, then dive — 

That's all. They say he made it five, 

Did Bill. 



Page 81 



AND THE SUNFLOW'RS NODDED "YES.** 

They bought him at a bargain and then drove 

him to the car 
With a score of other horses billed to foreign 

ports of war, 
While a youth, forlorn and ragged, standing sad- 
ly by the chute, 
Climbed the fence and, leaning over, kissed the 

muzzle of the brute. 
What a horse that was — what beauty in his lithe 

and glossy frame. 
The young man called him "Sehm," dwelling softly 

on the name. 
What a splendid piece of horse flesh was that 

prancing five-year-old. 
With the prairie sunshine gleaming on his tawny 

coat of gold. 

"Why the deuce," thinks I, in wonder, squinting 
down my "proddin' pole,'' 

Did they use a horse's carcass to enclose a wom- 
an's soul. 

Laugh, you roughneck! Keep on grinning, when 
you know I'm speaking true; 

I'll allow there's diff'rent women and their souls 
are diff'rent, too; 

But this Selim horse, from ear-tip to his slim 
and graceful heel, 

Radiated from each quiver, thoughts you some- 
times sorter feel. 

But can't speak 'em — like the lover — when he 
tightens in the throat, 

And his heart well-nigh to bustin', just inside his 
Sunday coat. 

Page 82 



Such a feeling — like a shadder — in those eyes of 

liquid gray, 
Touched my innards kind o' sudden when the horse 

train steamed away. 

Then the draft law ketched the youngster — gave 

his age as twenty-one — 
And along with me and others, sailed away to 

meet the Hun. 
Most of us was shrapnel fodder, drew the trench 

or rifle pit, 
Some assigned to signal service — each one fitted 

for his bit. 
As the youngster savvied horses, did his stunt 

on muddy days. 
Splashing through the flooded wheel-ruts with 

a pair of sorry grays. 
On each back, a hamper, laden with the war's 

grim bill of fare. 
Somehow moved in nice precision, barring missiles 

from the air. 

Then, for days, the rain came pouring on our 
sodden battle front. 

Where the long, thin columns wavered and the 
Sammies bore the brunt; 

Teared to me, us Yanks were singled by the Teu- 
ton's spiteful ire. 

And our lines the main objective of their savagery 
of fire. 

Came a day, a splattered sergeant, stumbling 
breathless through the bog. 

Back along the make-shift highway yelled his 
orders through the fog: 

Page 83 



"Hurry, men, we're short of powder," while the 

men with spur and whip, 
Sought to speed their jaded horses through the 

muck's relentless grip. 

Suddenly, from out the heavens, shrieked the 

menace of a shell, 
Fell into the cluttered roadway like a living brand 

of hell. 
Horses plunged and fell, their riders sprawled in 

death or screamed in pain, 
While the puddles 'round about them swelled and 

reddened in the rain. 
Sorely wounded, dazed and bleeding, youngster 

struggled to his feet. 
Summed the wreckage in an instant — Fritz's job 

had been complete. 
Yet not quite — a horse came plunging, like a wild 

thing through the mist. 
Lifting high a snorting muzzle that a Kansas boy 

had kissed. 

Yes, we tell it 'round the trench fires, when the 
Huns give us a chance. 

How this Selim saved our bacon by his record 
race in France. 

How the youngster, clean exhausted, reached our 
all but beaten ranks 

With the capsules for the Maxims swinging on 
the sorrel's flanks. 

Just enough to stem the torrent of those blood- 
mad raiding Huns, 

Just enough to start the devil singing in our 
silent guns. 

Page 84 



Now, my recollection travels to the far-off prairie 

skies, 
And a forlorn, ragged youngster, with the hot 

tears in his eyes. 
To a king of equine beauty by some super-mother 

foaled, 
Alkali, like powdered silver sifting from his coat 

of gold. 

When I wonder if the spirit of that land, long 
leagues away. 

Will endure throughout the conflict of the world's 
colossal fray. 

Flaming sunflowers, gaily nodding, in the south- 
wind's soft caress, 

Send to me a cheering message, and that mes- 
sage, friend, is "Yes." 



Page 85 



NOW I LAY ME— 

No doubt, you have heard of one ^'BHnkey" 

O'Shay, 
The big Irish sergeant of Company K, 
As tough as the puttees he wore on his shins, 
Steeped in the dregs of his manifold sins; 
A dandy good-looker, as game as a cock, 
As straight as a limb, and as hard as a rock; 
And tough — holy smoke! how that trooper could 

cuss 
Before he mixed up in that free-for-all fuss 
Over yonder. 

Now, Blinkey was raised "sorter shif'lus," 'tis 

true ; 
His Mammy was dead, and his Daddy was, too, 
And he hved with his kin, jist as or'n'ry as he. 
Till he met the one girl and, betwixt you and me. 
The first thing she did was to work on his heart, 
And, as Blinkey was willin', she got a good start. 
She taught him a prayer — short and simple, but 

deep — 
Which he promised to say ere he lay down to 

sleep 

Over yonder. 

In trench or in dugout, in raid or in rout, 

The seed the girl planted grew sturdy and stout; 

Each time that he gambled, each time that he 

swore. 
That prayer would enchain him a little bit more. 
And now comes the drama — a swift, blighting 

breath, 
Sweeping down from the north in a whirlwind 

of death; 
Page 86 



A nest in the mud and a smother of blood; 
A wreck in the wake of the onrushing flood 

Over yonder. 

His eyes to the sky, a whisper of pain, 

His palm reaching out to the beat of the rain, 

Sergeant O'Shay, with a gasp and a moan, 

Knew he was bleeding and dying — alone. 

"Oh Lord — jist a minute — she told me to pray; 

She said you would hear what my heart would 

convey, 
And she said: 1 can't fight, but I'll teach you a 

prayer ; 
It'll help out a lot, if you say it for fair, 

Over yonder'." 

How many young bucks, do you reckon, have said 
That one little prayer ere they rolled into bed? 
"Now I lay down to sleep" (be it shell hole alone; 
Be it couch made of silk, or a pillow of stone), 
"I pray Thee, Lord" (be it uttered in tears 
Or tne calm of a soul unacquainted with fears) 
"My soul to keep" (hark, you, what more could 

be said 
In that land of destruction — that prison of 

dread?) 

Over yonder. 

"If I should die, Lord" (hear the sound of the 

guns 
And the jeer from the trench of the battle-mad 

Huns) , 

Page 87 



^'Before I awake" (at the dawn of the day), 
"I pray take the soul of poor Blinkey O'Shay." 



The gray dawn appeared through a rift in the fog. 
A trooper lay still in his nest in the bog. 
The body was there, with its face to the fore. 
But the soul had passed on to that Evergreen 
Shore 

Over yonder. 



Page 88 



THE YANKEE RAINBOW 

One morning, a Boche peeped over his trench, 
For a look to the south and a peep at the French ; 
But instead of the gray, he saw something in 

brown, 
Which brought to his face a flush and a frown. 
For there, in the breeze, like a streamer of Fate, 
Filling his heart with the venom of hate, 
Was the flash of the red and the white and the 

blue. 
And the bobbing head-piece of a Sammie or two ; 
And he yelled to his mates in the shadows below: 
"Mein Gott, haf a look— it's the Yankee Rainbow !'' 

The days drifted on and the rainbow, still plain. 
Hung like a threat o'er the trench at Lorraine. 
The fire never ceased from the big Yankee guns, 
Making sure "hits" in the realm of the Huns ; 
The songs of the "Fatherland" faded away. 
And the "Star-Spangled Banner" enlivened the 

day. 
From the wide-awake Yanks, ever eager to fight, 
While the Germans crouched low in a panic of 

fright. 
And, instead of the brag, was a fear, whispered 

low: 
"Mein Gott, have a care; it's the Yankee Rain- 
bow." 

Unfading and bright, past the thin second line. 
The Rainbow moved north through the vales of 

the Rhine, 
While before it, in terror, like chaff in a gale, 
Von Hindenburg's army, all shattered and pale, 

Page 89 



Fled back through the land it had wrecked in its 

might, 
When Paris, the goal of its dreams, was in sight. 
They pause — when they can — for a much-needed 

breath, 
But to tarry too long in that region means death. 
So they gasp in distress as they splutter and blow: 
*'Mein Gott, where's the end of that Yankee 

Rainbow?" 

Some day, when the clouds of this war disappear. 

When our eyes look aloft and our lips frame a 
cheer, 

A burst of the sun, where the tempest has been, 

Will brighten the world for the children of men. 

Far-flung in the skies, where the Hghtning has 
ceased. 

Is the myriad tints of the bow in the east. 

To the north, to the south, a magnificent flame. 

Girdling the v/orld in humanity's name; 

Then v/e'll yell till we're hoarse, in a language we 
know: 

"Thank God for the boys of the Yankee Rain- 
bow!" 



Page 90 



BY THE WIRELESS OF FAITH. 

(A Community Christmas Poem.) 

Backward, turn backward, oh Time, in your flight. 
Give us the boy again, just for tonight. 
Give us his youth and his laughter at play 
And the treasures of wit in the things he would 

say 
When the tot came at eve to his fond mother's 

care. 
For her kiss of good-night and his bit of a prayer. 
Slow down for an hour, oh Time, in your race 
And give us the smile on his dear baby face, 
The pout on his lips we so often have kissed 
And the clutch and the cling of his warm, little 

fist. 
The tear, ever near, in the depth of his sighs 
And the eager appeal in his beautiful eyes. 
Just turn back your hands, Time, and deaden the 

stroke 
Of your bell in this maelstrom of powder and 

smoke 
And send us a gleam from your cloud-driven rift 
And we'll welcome the boon of your wonderful 

gift. 

Oh boy, in your trappings of leather and brown, 
What a void you have left in the heart of the 

town. 
What a tempest of pain in the old mother's heart, 
And the deluge of tears when she saw you depart, 
What volumes of love could this old mother say 
By the wireless of Faith to her boy far away. 
What cheer could she send on the wings of the 

night. 
Of her pride in your stand on the side of the right. 

Page 91 



In your hopes for the future ; your dreams of the 

past; 
The cause you espouse and the flag on its mast ; 
In the lull of the guns or the heat of the fight, 
She'll ever be near as an angel of light. 
She bids you God-speed on your trip o'er the sea 

sea 
And this wish is her gift, here tonight, on the 

tree. 

Forward, come forward, oh Past, with your joys 
And your heart-warming dreams of the home and 

its boys, 
For the Past and the Present and Future unite 
With what joys they may bring on this glad 

Christmas night, 
The Future is loath to detain or to bar 
Its mad march of armies to fight in the war. 
But the hearts of the camps, of the transport 

and train. 
Are longing, this night, for the home-folks again. 
The old-fashioned Past, tho' decrepit and old. 
Is eager to pass out his presents of gold, 
While with smile and with promise, the Present is 

host 
And to both Past and Future he offers a toast; 
To the Past: *'May the stars in your skies never 

pale. 
Nor our foot-prints grow dim in the dust of your 

trail. 
To the Future : "Keep sacred the faith of the Past 
And restore what we crave, Teace with Honor,' 

at last." 



Page 92 



HIS STEP ON THE ATTIC STAIR 

He'd toted a gun in the siege of Verdun, 

And he'd served with both British and 
French. 
He had carried a kit and was doing his bit 

In the perils of crater and trench. 
He had bled with the rest — he had weathered the 
test — 

With the legion at Lens and Champaigne. 
Now, he'd written to say, "I am sailing today, 

I am longing to see you again." 

For the thrill of a raid was the sailing delayed — 

Just another mad dash at the foe, 
Just a farewell thrust through the blinding dust 

At the Hun in the trench below. 
But the legend is old — it has often been told — 

Of the pitcher that went to the well. 
And, true to the tale, went a note through the 
mail: 

"He stayed — for a raid — and he fell." 

The shadows are stealing around the house 

And herald a night of gloom, 
As the old folks dream in the fireside gleam 

In their plain little "settin* " room. 
There's the organ and stool and the golden rule 

In the motto just over the door, 
A wax flower wreath on the mantel beneath, 

And a kitten asleep on the floor. 

There's an old violin, with the bow worn thin. 

And a gun with a broken stock ; 
Some roses, once red, now withered and dead, 

In a vase by the drowsy clock. 

Page 93 



And, prized above all, hanging low on the wall, 

Aglint in the back-log's flame, 
Is a picture of him — of their ''Baby boy, Jim," 

Smiling down from its gilded frame. 

How silent they wait for the click of the gate. 

And the grind of his buggy wheels. 
And the neigh of the bay as he gallops away. 

And the clank of his iron-shod heels. 
How silent they long for the rollicking song 

And the lilt to his lady fair. 
And his gentle good-night as he turned down the 
Hght, 

And his step on the attic stair. 

His overalls hang on a wooden peg 

On the wall of his attic room, 
Where the lithographs, dear to his boyish heart, 

Are shrouded in web and gloom. 
There's a baseball bat and a last year's hat 

And a sock with a missing toe, 
A dog-eared grammar and broken slate 

Of the days of the long ago. 

They are missing his laugh and his care-free 
chaff. 

And the touch of his calloused hand, 
By his loved ones endeared and by enemy feared. 

In the grapple on No-man's Land, 
What they'll miss most of all is his cheery call 

And his hit to his lady fair. 
And his gentle good-night as he turned down the 



And his step on the attic stair. 
Page 94 



THE TEST 

Between here and France lies 'The Ocean of 
Doubt," 

With death in its sullen tide, 
And he is brave who would ride its wave 

And sail to its other side. 
Beyond the ports of its farthest edge 

Where the war-cloud's thunders roll, 
Is the goal supreme of your soldier dream, 

The waking will test your soul. 

From Lens to the Rhine, past the battle line 

Of a million German guns. 
You will freeze **on guard" thru the winter night 

And fight through the summer suns. 
There'll be no rest in this rigid test, 

No beauty, no pomp, no cheers, 
For beauty is dead and only dread 

Is king in this land of tears. 

The flowers are crushed 'neath the studded heel 

Of the war-god's ruthless reign 
And the Ypres flood is tinged with blood. 

The blood of its thousands slain. 
In this crucible grim on the battle's rim, 

In your fight for the rights of men. 
Will your soul emerge from its acid test 

As strong as it once has been? 

Oh, boy, in the peace of your old home town 

As you silently wait the call, 
Do you dread the "choice" of your country's voice 

'*You are summoned to stand or fall," 

Page 95 



Will you stand at salute in the early dawn 

Erect or in shrinking fear, 
Will you muffle your tone when the roll is called 

Or proudly answer "Here?" 

God grant that you pass thru the danger zones — 

Through the hell of a world-wide strife, 
That you romp back home across the foam 

To the land that gave you life. 
When the trenches are filled by the peaceful plow 

And despots are put to rout, 
The sun will shine on a peaceful Rhine 

And there'll be no "Ocean of Doubt." 

We will watch through the dusk for the coming 
ship — 

For the khaki, tattered and torn. 
We will watch for the stars and the gleaming bars 

Of the flag you've so proudly borne. 
We will know by the smile on your weary face 

That the test has been weathered and won, 
That you still are true to our hope in you 

When the battles are over and done. 



Page 96 



AFTER 

After the war, what then? 
What of the maimed and weary men — 
The influx of men — from the other side, 
Reaching our shores in a ceaseless tide. 
Back from the front where they fought and bled, 
Back from the graves of their comrades dead. 
After the war — what then? 

After the ships — what then? 
What of the fruit of their hardships when 
They set their feet on the New York pier, 
The Statue of Liberty towering near — 
Their hearts will respond to the Goddess fair, 
But what of your own when you meet them there. 
After the ships — what then? 

After the train — what then? 

The little red depot and, home again. 

The hair has grayed since they went away. 

The faces stem where they once were gay, 

The eager call and the hearty grip. 

And "Welcome home" on every lip, 

After the train — what then? 

After the home — what then? 

They will ask, with their eyes, what your deeds 

have been, 
They'll scan each face in a searching gaze, 
Deaf to the voice of your clamored praise. 
An unspoken question will burn like flame — 
Your own must answer or droop in shame. 
After the home — what then? 

Page 97 



After a while — what then? 

A look at the ledgers — the records of men. 

A balance will prove them, your deeds will stand 

forth 
In debits of failure — in credits of worth. 
The boys will demand and the world will expect 
An accounting in full and your stewardship 

checked. 

After the check — what then? 

After the years — what then? 

A glorious calm — the grand Amen. 

A prayer of thanksgiving, an anthem of love 

To the Author of Peace, the Father above. 

Tears for the dead 'neath a foreign sod, 

Hope for the living, a faith in God, 

Peace everlasting — then. 



Page 98 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



AT THE OLD FASHIONED FAIR. 

And where is the girl with the braided hair, 
We used to see at the county fair? 
A garland of posies upon her hat; 
A turtle shell buckle and — things like that; 
A "caliker" gown with a white background 
With pink and blue blossoms all scattered around. 
The girl with the freckles and turned up nose; 
The "runover" slippers too short at the toes; 
The pink ribbon girl with the "sassiest" air — 
We used to see at the old fashioned fair. 

And where is the boy with the red necktie, 
Who strutted and posed as she passed him by? 
The boy with the down on his lip and chin, 
A down that was red where the dimples stuck in 
Then blending to gold as it reached to his hair, 
Combed to a silkiness — russet and rare. 
The boy with the pick of the nine-dollar suits 
Too long at the sleeves, too short at the boots — 
A dollar to spend — enough and to spare 
To "take 'em all in" at the old fashioned fair. 

And where is the matron, so fussy and coy, 
The mother, perhaps, of the girl or the boy? 
The comely old soul with the smile on her face. 
In her simple black frock with its border of lace, 
Conspicuous, quite, on the lengthy program; 
The infallible judge of the jelly and jam. 
The snappy old lady with ice in her voice, 
If any contestant disputed her choice. 
The lovable dame with frost in her hair; 
The mother of men at the old fashioned fair. 

Page 100 



And Where's Uncle Jasper, who came to the fair ? 
A pretty tame show if "Jas" wasn't there. 
The judge of the races; pastmaster of speed; 
A rattlin' good judge of both rider and steed; 
The "four square ol' Jas" with a voice like a bull 
And a laugh from the spring of the heart when 

it's full. 
Who played a "pat hand" when he sat in the 

game 
And knew every horse that was worthy the name. 
Oh, the show was sure tame if "Jas" wasn't there 
In the box at the race at the old fashioned fair. 

And where are the others that came to the fair, 
With their hearts in their eyes and their heads 

in the air ? 
The old wagon boxes which groaned 'neath their 

weight ; 
The patient old horse with a mule for its mate; 
The rickety surrey with fringe on the top; 
The sparkling "side bar," just out of the shop; 
The frolicsome swains, with their saddles 

asqueak, 
Who rode with a "whoop" through the ford at 

the creek; 
The dashing brown filly; the high steppin' mare 
That carried their mounts to the old fashioned 

fair. 

They are scattered Uke leaves. Only God knows to 

where. 
Those old fashioned people that came to the fair. 
The long white road to the old fair grounds 
Is peopled with strangers and stranger sounds. 

Page 101 



The groaning wagons have rumbled away 
Into the trails of a yesterday. 
The "caliker" gowns and the plain black frocks; 
Old Uncle Jas' and his "store bought" socks, 
Have vanished like dreams in the empty air, 
Along with the joys of the old fashioned fair. 



Page 102 



TRIANGLE. 

A wee little angel, too tiny to fly, 

One morning at daylight, dropped outa th* sky, 

Kerplunk down our chimbley and bounced on th' 

bed, 
Or, at least, 'at's what ma an* th' doctor man 

said 

When I ast 'em. 



His head was like grandpa's, all shiny an* bare; 

He looked orful funny 'thout any hair; 

But th' fire in th' grate scorched it offen his 

head — 
Or, at least, 'at's what ma an' th' doctor man 

said 

When I ast 'em. 

Mouth was Hke gran'ma's, wiv never a toof; 

He lost 'em, I guess, som'rs up on th' roof. 

When he fell from th' Milky Way, high over- 
head — 

Or, at least, 'at's what ma an' the' doctor man 
said 

When I ast 'em. 

He looks like the "Kewpies" you buy at the 

Kress, 
Wiv a ribbon around 'em place of a dress; 
But this one had triangle drapin's instead-— 
Or, at least, 'at's what ma an' the' doctor man 

said 

When I ast 'em. 

Page lOS 



DREAM WILLOWS. 

Seems to me I hear the willows sighing 'round 

the river bend, 
Whispering secrets in my hearing, just as though 

I were a friend. 
And, why not? Tve lain beneath them, man and 

boy, for twenty years; 
Told them mine in reckless laughter; told them 

in a storm of tears. 
There I used to go at sunset when the great 

green world was still. 
Taking all my boyish passions, whether good or 

whether ill. 
Felt the spring rains' gentle patter falling on my 

upturned cheek, 
Felt the north wind's lash in winter when the 

hills were white and bleak. 

Every spring I hear the music of their far off 

coaxing call 
High above the sleepless traffic; high above the 

human brawl. 
Just a day to seek their shadows; just an hour 

to hide a pain; 
Just to rest beneath their branches dreaming 

dreams of youth again. 
Do you weep, fragrant willows, as you did in 

other days? 
Do you gossip with the riffles of the world's dis- 
tressing ways? 
Do you spray the grass at sunrise with your 

night old wealth of tears? 
Do you sigh your gentle greeting when the first 

haw bloom appears? 

Page IO4 



Does the big black bass annoy you, with his un- 
expected splash? 

Does he still disport before you with his mottled 
silver flash? 

Does he chase the phantom minnows to the shal- 
lows of the pool, 

Then lay by in crafty silence to await another 
school ? 

Do the anglers mar the silence as they cast in 
sheer despair, 

Aiming where they last espied him, but to find 
he isn't there? 

Ah, I wonder if you miss me as these spring 
days come and go. 

At the river bend of Fancy — in the land of So 
and So. 



Page 105 



THE MIRAGE. 

He came to the gap in the Saw-tooth range 

— A rider from Broken Bow — 
And he paused for a look at the Great Unknown, 

Far-flung at his feet, below. 
Behind lay the dust of his withered hopes, 

. Ahead was the mystic lure, 
Far back on the trail were his placers of Doubt — 
Out there were the sands of Sure. 

He tethered his horse in the sparse mesquite, 

— This rider from Broken Bow — 
And he slept through the calm of the desert night 

To awake in the golden glow. 
A distant peak, like a beckoning hand. 

Caught the rays of the rising sun, 
A flush of unrest touched the far sand dunes. 

The desert day had begun. 

Know ye the death in that biting breath, 

— Rider from Broken Bow — 
And know ye the guile in that fair, false smile 

Of that treacherous yellow foe. 
Which hoards its gold Hke a miser old 

Fretful and cautious and gray. 
Who sums up the cost of the man who has lost 

At the end of a desert day? 

A laboring motor. An irksome trail, 

— A party from Broken Bow — 

Something black in the shifting sand 

Piled high like a drift of snow. 
A saddle-horn and a shrunken boot 

And the glint of an old canteen. 
Told the tale of his struggle to reach a lake 

Portrayed on the desert screen. 
Page 106 



It's many the men who have ventured afar, 

— Riders from Broken Bow — 
Who have toiled through the sands of their nar- 
row lives 
In the placers of Thus and So, 
Who have come to the gap in the Saw-tooth range, 

To a view of their task Supreme, 
To grasp at the promise of fairy peaks 
To find it an empty dream. 

It's many the men who have striven for wealth, 

— Riders from Broken Ties — 
Who have plunged through the desert with out- 
stretched hands 
For the gold in a ledge of Lies, 
Who have gasped in the heat of the shade of De- 
ceit 
'Neath the trees of their fair mirage 
And to find that their lake is a sham and a fake — 
The devil's own camouflage. 



Page 107 



DONT GO TOO FAR WITH UNCLE. 

I met an old man on the village walk 

And, having nothing else to do I stopped to talk. 

Exchanged the customary greetings, then I said, 

**Why do you walk so slow and bow your head? 

Altho' your years are many, not a trace 

The stamp of age has left upon your face. 

Your grip is firm, your shoulders broad and 

strong, 
And yet you totter as you walk along." 

"My son," said he, "my age is three-score ten. 
My health is better far than that of younger men. 
I've weathered well the storms of many wars 
And, married thrice, have had domestic jars. 
But not for these, but other things, I care 
And which has shot the silver thru my hair. 
Come sit with me on yon decrepit rack 
And for fifty thrilling years I'll take you back." 

His story held some romance. Many woes. 
The friends he'd made were legion. Few his foes. 
And, tracing up from out his checkered past, 
His crowning grievance I discerned at last. 
"For fifty years," he cried, with voice ahusk, 
"I've had my little nip at dawn and dusk. 
My demijohn, meanwhile, was never dry. 
My friends would call on me as they passed by. 

"But now they pass upon the other side. 
The lure is gone. There's nothing left to hide. 
On north and south, on east and west. 
The bone-dry minions never are at rest. 
No contraband, they say, will they excuse. 

Page 108 



They've got a strangle-hold on demon booze. 
In all my views of death, the thought ne'er ran 
That I'd be forced to die a strictly temperance 



He paused and gloomed for quite a spell, 

While over all a tragic silence fell. 

He spoke at last — the talk had done him good; 

Resumed his musing in a brighter mood. 

"I'll say the liquor law is right and just. 

I'll help to make it go, if go she must. 

Perhaps we can the damning stuff efface 

And save some head-strong fool his dark disgrace. 

We'll boost that law and shout a glad 'Amen,' 
If 'twill serve to help our fallen fellow men. 
But now, they say, the time is surely ripe 
To legislate and *swat' my old cobpipe. 
If such a law they pass and make it stick, 
I'll go upon the war-path with a brick." 



Page 109 



THE OZARKS. 

Land of a million smiles! Dame Nature's kiss 
Upon the brow of yonder purple peaks 
Clings long and soft and tender as she speaks 
A bright **Gk)od morning" after dreams of bliss. 
Far down the shadowed aisles, an opal veil 
Is Hf ting from each winding, rugged trail, 
Disclosing, underneath, the plunging streams — 
The silver threads which bound our night of 
dreams. 



The orange glow arising over all; 

The drowFy glens, the vine-clad granite Vdll, 

Forecasts the day as beauties manifold 

Take fhape and bloom in varied tints of gold. 

Land of a million smiles and throbs and thrills; 

Land of the kindly shepherd of the hills ; 

The poet's theme — the harpist's joy; 

The human gold of earth without alloy; 

Rare films of rapture yet unfurled. 

In ^hese, the Ozarks — ^garden of the v/orld. 



God clothed the Rockies with eternal snows ; 

The Alleghanies with the juniper and rose. 

When all was done, some odds and ends remain- 
ed— 

The choicest of them all. These He retained. 

He painted and adorned each precious scrap 

And flung the whole into Missouri's lap. 

There shall they lie. There shall they bless man- 
kind; 

The fairest spot of all the earth designed. 

Paffe 11$ 



THE SUN-PERCH PROXY 

On a dew-drenched April mornin' 
Gold and bronze the East adornin'. 
Just before the sun peeps over 
Purple sky lines into day, 
On my Izaak Walton mission, 
Merrily, I go a-fishin' 
With my old cane pole a-swishin', 
Primed and eager for the fray. 

Never was a day more fittin', 
Fleecy clouds above me flittin', 
Witn the sunshine, warm and tender 
Fallin' checkered on the grass, 
All day long I vainly angled, 
While my minnow idly dangled, 
Slackened line by drift entangled — 
Couldn't ketch that super-bass. 

He was there — I saw him flashin', 
After phantom minnows dashin', 
Sometimes lyin' still and crafty 
'Neath the surface, smooth as glass, 
Somethin' in his eye, a-beamin' 
And his speckled sides a-gleamin' 
I was wide awake — not dreamin', 
When I spied that super-bass. 

Thus it was through many seasons, 
Had no luck for divers reasons. 
Vain my fevered expectations — 
That big fish my bait would pass. 
He was there — he lived there yearly, 
Oft I caught him (very nearly). 
Jarred my peace of mind severely 
When I lost that super-bass. 

Page 111 



I have gold and worldly treasure, 
Life has held some transient pleasure, 
But there's one ignoble failure 
Retrospection shows — Alas. 
Every Spring I go a-fishin'. 
Well nigh bu'stin' with ambition, 
But my hopes drop to perdition — 
Just can't ketch that super-bass. 

For that wall-eyed devil — foxy, 
Always sends his sun — perch proxy. 



Page Hi 



THE CHRISTIAN. 

"Punchin* long horns in my forte, with the accent 

on the *e,* 
And this shootin' up of Greasers don't seem 

Christian-like to me. 
Fm as gentle as a kitten and as peaceful as an 

owl, 
Night herd fairly makes me shiver when the 

c'yotes start to howl 
Lonesome-like acrost the valley, moon ablinkin' in 

the sky. 
And the catamount gits busy with his mo'nful 

lullaby. 
Everywhere you hear strange noises, but caint 

locate in the sand, 
Like as not they're signals passin' up and down 

the Rio Grande, 
By the smugglers, chinks, or greasers, German 

spies or Villa's men, 
Zapata, or other outlaws waitin' f er to raid again. 
Thar's my ring, jist wait a minute, till I see who's 

on the 'phone, 
Hope thar aint no trouble brewin', fer you know 

I'm all alone. 

"Mike an' Rane gone to El Paso, like as not they're 

on a spree, 
Leavin' hell an' half o' Texas to a Chinese cook 

an' me. 
'Hello, yes, yes, this is Larkin, river camp — the 

Lazy *A.' 
What is that you're sayin'. Buster, you're at 

Blanca, did you say? 

Page 113 



Crossed the river, just at sundown, headed nawth 

a hundred strong? 
Ride like hell — I'll try to hold 'em. See you later, 

Cap, so long'." 
Larkin, whom they called the Christian, slowly 

rolled a cigarette. 
Now the saint-like smile had vanished and his jaw 

was grimly set. 
"Mister Daley, please excuse me. Tell your people 

on the Star, 
That Jim Larkin savvies cow brutes, but he don't 

believe in war. 
Yes, I know you'd like to foller, but that triflin' 

Mike an' Rane 
Took their shootin' irons to Blanca whar they went 

to ketch the train." 

Two days later, tired and dusty, back along the 
cactus trail, 

Daley's pocket held a _ry for the east-bound 
Texas mail. 

How the Christian reached the mountains just in 
time to ward the blow 

From the sleeping town of "Dobie" on the mesa 
just below, 

How the rangers, riding swiftly, through the 
wind-swept desert night, 

Reached the hard-pressed, wounded Larkin, hold- 
ing gamely in the fight. 

As we left him at the blacksmith's, with a dum- 
dum in his thigh, 

White with pain, but meek and lowly, Larkin mut- 
tered with a sigh: 

Page II4 



"Hope I didn't kill no greasers, all I done was 

make a noise. 
Buster said they counted twenty, but he laid it 

to his boys. 
Don't misunderstand me, Daley, tell your people 

on the Star 
That Jim Larkin savvies cow brutes, but he don't 

believe in war." 



Page 115 



HOW LIKE THE ROSE. 

A mound of clay ; a moss-grown slab of stone ; 
A broken vase contains a bud — half blown, 
A thrush sings in the hedge ; a bee drones by ; 
A cedar croons its tender lullaby. 
Then all is still. The sunset fades away 
And darkness veils the beauty of the day. 

A vaulted sky ; a sheen of mystic light 
Where starbeams kiss the solemn rows of white. 
The night winds sigh across the darkened hill ; 
The cedar hides a plaintive whip-poor-will. 
The stars grow pale ; the red dawn .tints the blue, 
The bud, refreshened in its bath of dew, 
Lifts up its head to greet the coming morn, 
The stamen bursts. A gorgeous rose is born. 

How like the rose unfolding in the vase 
Is he who sleeps within that narrow space 
Designed by God — that he, too, like the rose 
May gather beauty in a brief repose. 
A season in the soil till Heaven's breath 
Shall pierce the tomb and summon him from 

death. 
How like the rose which greets the dew-drenched 

morn 
The shroud unfolds. Behold, a soul is born. 

Page 116 



TWO BOOKS. 

"Come forward, friends, and take a look 
"At this — 'My Life' — an open hook. 
"Unsoiled its pages — white and fair; 
"No blots, no sins are written there." 

It told of youth, brought up in ease; 
A doting parentage to please 
His childish whims ; each tear to dry 
With trinkets such as wealth could buy; 
Then youth grown up to man's estate. 
He wed. His parents chose his mate. 
The future, too, was cut and dried 
Both for the author and his bride. 
Thus circled round with watchful eyes 
Against intrigue and rude surprise, 
He tottered on to thirty years, 
Up to the time his book appears. 

The World's Voice: 
"WeVe read your book and say 'Amen' 
"We do not care to read again. 
"We find no fault, for there is none. 
"Your race was good and nobly run. 
"But honestly, is it your life 
"Or that of Taw' and *Maw'— or Wife?" 

Another came with half-closed hook. 
"If you don't mind, I'll let you look 
"At this — 'My Life'; the cover worn; 
"The pages crumpled, stained and torn." 

Mistakes were many — some were great, 
But mended ere it was too late 
And there were lurid love affairs. 
A wayward life, a mother's prayers, 



Page 117 



A battle-field where comrades died 

And left him gasping in the tide. 

The sad return to find them dead — 

The father with his snowy head; 

The mother with her patient face, 

The loved things changed around the place. 

His first sweetheart — a woman grown — 

Was there beside the slabs of stone, 

Knelt at his side, with him to grieve, 

And softly kissed his empty sleeve. 

A cottage with its flowered lot — 

A year had passed — a smiling tot. 

And thus we view the thirty years 

Up to the time his book appears. 

The World's Voice: 
"We've read your book — not once, but twice. 
"It tells of tears and sacrifice. 
"Your sins we cannot quite condone, 
"But laud your efforts to atone. 
"What good youVe done, you've done it well. 
"The world forgets that once you fell; 
"Live on — fight on — and see it through, 
"We'll all subscribe for Volume Two." 



PaffC 118 



THE WATER FRONT SALOON. 

There's a building, old and dingy, with its win- 
dows boarded high. 

Standing squat and mean and loathsome, scorned 
by every passing eye. 

There's a gilded sign — now faded — just above the 
battered door, 

Which bespeaks departed glory in the hectic days 
of yore. 

There within its dusty portals, once was wit and 
wine and song, 

Interspersed with roundsman's whistle and the 
clanging of a gong. 

One could hear the ribald tenor of an operatic air, 

Or the maudlin curse of Clancey and the smashing 
of a chair. 



One could hear the dicebox rattle and the cubes 

upon the bar 
As the patrons courted fortune for a drink or 

cheap cigar. ♦ 

Others bawled their thristy orders, some for 

"bock" and some for "pale" 
All the while their restless boot heels shuffled on 

the tarnished rail. 
Here and there, in drunken stupor — twitching lip 

and fitful snore — 
Wasted wrecks of men lay sprawling in the saw- 
dust on the floor. 
Everywhere the flies were buzzing in the torrid 

afternoon, 
'Round the helpless guests of Clancey's at the 

"Water Front Saloon." 

Page 119 



Clancey's power ruled the precinct. Clancey*s 
money tipped the scales, 

Made himself immune from justice; saved his 
patrons from the jails. 

What reforms could not accomplish, war deter- 
mined at a stroke, 

"Sea walls" reared by men like Clancey, felt the 
tidal wave and broke. 

And, today, where squalor flourished, sanitation 
has begun. 

"Eye sores," such as Clancey's barroom, are de- 
parting, one by one. 

'Mid the shoals of world opinion are the bits of 
wreckage strewn, 

In the drift of nonessentials — like the "Water 
Front Saloon." 

Can changed conditions shatter what the law can- 
not efface. 

The mills of war regenerate the vilest of the 
race, 

The light of God descending on the slough of hu- 
man woes 

Compel the slime of vanquished hope to blossom 
like a ros^? 

The laggard footsteps quickened to the drum's 
inspiring beat. 

The swing doors opened outward to the wildly 
cheering street. 

Lack-luster eyes saw glory in the blazing light 
of noon — 

They'd seen the last of Clancey's and the "Wa- 
ter Front Saloon." 



Page 120 



"Three-fingered Jack," the one-time thug, is 

working in a mine. 
"Chicago Red" is coxswain on a river packet line. 
"Milwaukee Mike" and "Dale, the Dip," just back 

from "over there," 
Pause in their evening promenade to listen to a 

prayer. 
The water front has altered to these stalwart men 

in brown, 
They're "seein' things" they never dreamed would 

happen in the town. 
For Clancey — yes, that's Clancey — starting up a 

husky tune, 
As the "Army" pleads for sinners in "The Water 

Front Saloon." 



HE, TOO, MUST ADVERTISE. 

God placed His stars upon the vaulted skies — 
The forecast of the joys of Paradise. 
He set the moon, the sun, the morning glow 
Where all could see, that all of us might know 
That somewhere out beyond that azure sea 
If Uf e eternal, friend, for you and me. 

As 'tis in life, so 'tis in things Divine. 
The rose attests the power of the vine. 
The quartz out-crop of some secluded hill 
Leads to the vein awaiting human skill. 
In everything wherein a value lies, 
God paints a sign. He, too, must advertise. 



Page 121 



IT'S NOT ALL IN THE TACKLE. 

While Bill Hicks was busy castin' 
With his "wah-jacks" everlastin'. 

In th' ca'm and limpid bosom of th' stream, 
I sneaks off all by my lonesome — 
Though th' steep banks make me groan some — 

To some bosky dell where I could dream and 
dream. 

The'fo, in my nook secluded, 
With all noisome things excluded, 

I proceed to reconstruct my last year's line 
Which, for want of better sinker, 
I supply with rock or clinker 

And tie it on with sundry bits of twine. 

Now I finds a vagrant cricket, 
Through his squirmin' back I stick it 

With an oF fish hook as rusty as a beam. 
Out I slings or Mister Cricket 
With a pole cut from th' thicket. 

Then I settles back in peace — to di'eam an' 
dream. 

First I watch a mother linnet 
Seek her nest with young-uns in it. 

Then I notes a festive fox squirrel in a tree, 
Then a big bull-frog— a dandy — 
On some driftwood floatin' handy 

As he sung his direful barytone to me. 

Page 122 



On I dream uninterrupted 
In the shadows — uncorrupted 

Till I sense there's something doin' on my line, 
For that husky piece o' stagen 
Is a jumpin' and a ragin' 

Like or Hindenburg retreatin' to th* Rhine. 

And, oh Boy ! he was a wonder. 
Seven times he pulled me under 

As through th' milky depths we ripped an, 
tore, 
Till at last I got him hobbled 
Tho* th' laigs beneath me wobbled 

As I chained him to a stump upon th' shore. 

Bill was sore — that didn't matter — 
At my proud and boastful chatter 

As through th' dusk we took our homeward 
hike, 
And that piscatory wonder 
Muttered to himself: "By thunder — 

Whaja think an' not a blinkum, blinkum 
strike." 



Page lU 



JIST ME. 

I love th* Spring, by jing, 
I go out on the porch an' swing an* swing, 
An' smoke my ol' cob pipe, an' sing, by jing, 
Jist smoke an' sing. 

I love th' Spring, by jing. 
Th' wasps fly 'roun' an' cling an' cling 
To my bald head an' sting, by jing. 
An' sting an' sting. 

In Spring I have my fling, by jing. 
While **bull head cats" I string an' string, 
The pleadin' church bells ring, by jing, 
Jist ring an' ring. 

Sometimes in Spring, by jing. 
My wife slips up and, bing an' bing, 
She says, *Take that you shif'lus thing, by jing. 
You shif'lus thing." 

Sweet memories in Spring, by jing. 
The zephyrs to my ol' heart bring an' bring. 
I'd rather be jist me than king, by jing, 
Jist me than king. 



Page 124 



INDEX. 

OIL POEMS Page 

A Rose From the Wreath 7 

"Spider" Cass Malone 13 

Love at Ranger 17 

The Grave of Mah-Che-Tan 19 

The Luck o' Bill Smithers 24 

The Tin Can Trail 27 

Thirty Minutes 29 

Old Dewey Shannon's Gal 32 

In Texas 36 

The Tanks of the Tex-0-Kan 38 

Christmas at Bald Hill Lease 40 

The Freak 42 

"Dry Hole" 45 

Not for Sale 48 

The Haunts of Eden 51 

The Stretching: of Slivver O'Neil 54 

The Change at Limestone Center 56 

Wherever You Happen To Be. 58 

WAR-TIME POEMS 

The Greater Gifts 61 

How Strayf oot Settled Down 62 

Little Miss Cigarette 65 

Goose-Quill 67 

Dad's War 70 

Five Stars and a Cross of Gold 71 

Song of the Wrist Watch 73 

Sam and I 75 

We're Going Back 77 

Bill 80 

And the Sunflowers Nodded "Yes" 82 

Now I Lay Me — 86 

The Yankee Rainbow 89 

By the Wireless of Faith 91 

His Step on the Attic Stair 93 

The Test 95 

After 97 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

At the Old Fashioned Fair 100 

Triangle 103 

Dream Willows 104 

The Mirage 106 

Don't Go Too Far With Uncle 108 

The Ozarks 110 

The Sun-Perch Proxy Ill 

The Christian 113 

How Like the Rose 116 

Two P^oks 117 

The Water Front Saloon 119 

He. Too, Must Advertise 121 

It's Not All in the Tackle 122 

Jist Me 124 



PRINTED BY 



STANDARD <j^^^0^ PRESS 
GLOVER BUILDING KANSAS CITY. MO. 



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